


The Story of Chris

by hwshipper



Series: The Chris 'Verse [5]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Exhibitionism, Group Sex, M/M, Open Relationships, POV Original Character, Threesome - Slash, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-10
Updated: 2008-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:39:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwshipper/pseuds/hwshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Wilson's relationship with Chris, an OMC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Open Relationships

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: There is a high quotient of slut!Wilson in this fic. Includes much non-monogamous sexual activity across the chapters.
> 
> Chris was the stranger who starred in [Let Me Take You To A…](http://archiveofourown.org/works/64197), he just didn't have a name then.  
> Chris's relationship with Wilson in this story was also referred to in [Memoirs of an Oncology Secretary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/48919) chapter 3, and [Twenty Years of Stealing My Food](http://archiveofourown.org/works/65011) chapter 19.
> 
> BETA: Enormous gratitude to [](http://starlingthefool.livejournal.com/profile)[**starlingthefool**](http://srsly-yes.livejournal.com/).

Chris had made sure that the living room looked warm and inviting for when Wilson walked in. Soft music played in the background, and dimmed lights shone down gently onto the bottle of wine waiting to be opened on the table. The scent of the casserole in the oven wafted through from the kitchen.

He heard the sound of Wilson's car outside, right on time as expected, and went out to meet him. Wilson got out of his car, looking tired after a full week's work and an hour and a half's drive, but he smiled and said "Hey."

"The weekend starts here." Chris kissed Wilson swiftly on the lips, and led him inside.

Wilson pulled off his coat and hung it up in the hallway. "I'm disgustingly sweaty, I have to take a shower."

"Wine first," Chris said, heading into the living room. He uncorked the bottle deftly and had a glass waiting ready when Wilson followed him in.

"I've been looking forward to coming down here all week," Wilson said, looking out of the large bay windows, to the view of the beach rolling down towards the sea. The two of them sat on the white leather couch, knees brushing, and told each other how their last week had been. Ridiculously hectic, for Wilson. But as he sipped the wine and chatted, Chris watched him start to relax, begin to unwind.

Wilson finished his glass of wine, and headed off for the shower. Chris sat in the living room, contemplating the beach at dusk outside. He'd started really looking forward to Wilson's weekend arrivals over the last three months.

And then a phone rang to disturb the peace; Wilson's cell, which he'd left in his coat pocket out in the hall. Chris retrieved the phone and looked at the caller ID: House.

Chris knew better than to ignore it. He flipped the phone open and said, "Hey, House. It's Chris."

"Gimme Wilson." House sounded grumpy, but then he always did.

"He's in the shower," Chris said, raising his head and listening to the sound of running water. "House, he's only just got here. You're not going to make him turn round and drive all the way back, are you?"

"Shut the fuck up and get me Wilson."

Chris was tempted to say Fuck you, House, and turn off the phone. However, he'd tried something similar a few weeks ago and had gotten burned for it. If there was one thing he'd learned in the time he'd been going out with Wilson, it was not to get in the way of House and Wilson. Wilson wouldn't stand for it, and it only made House push all the more.

"OK, hang on." Chris headed towards the bathroom, holding the cell phone. The sound of running water increased dramatically as he opened the bathroom door and a cloud of steam wafted out. Wilson was visible through frosted glass, standing under the shower head; naked, eyes closed, hair plastered to his forehead.

Chris walked up to the cubicle and rapped on the glass; Wilson opened his eyes and looked around. Chris held up the cell phone; he didn't need to say anything.

Wilson sighed and hit the button to turn off the water. He opened the shower door and took the phone.

"House? Not a good time. I'm in the shower." Wilson listened for a minute, water running down his face and dripping off his chin, his attention focused on the phone. Chris retreated a few steps to give Wilson some privacy, but didn't leave the room. Instead, he started taking his own clothes off.

Chris gathered from Wilson's side of the conversation that House had a desperately sick patient and it might be cancer. Indeed, once all the symptoms had been talked through, Wilson agreed that it did sound like cancer. At this point Chris distinctly heard House tell Wilson to get his ass back there now.

"House," Wilson said plaintively. "I just drove for an hour and a half..."

Chris, now naked, stepped into the shower cubicle next to Wilson, and took the phone out of Wilson's hand. He said into the receiver, "It's OK, House, I'll drive him. He'll be with you in a couple of hours," snapped the phone shut, tossed it out of the shower and shut the door behind him.

He then reached around Wilson to hit the button to turn the water on again. Hot water cascaded down, drenching Chris in no time, plastering his sandy-colored hair across his head. Chris shuddered slightly as it hit him. Then he put his arms around Wilson, and pulled him close.

Wilson slid his own slippery arms around Chris's back and said quietly, "Do you mind? Driving me back, I mean."

"No. Not as long as we can do this first." Chris kissed Wilson and pressed up against him. Wilson pressed back, and Chris felt Wilson's cock moving up against his groin. Chris put his hand down and grasped it. Wilson shut his eyes and gasped, and his cock started to harden rapidly under Chris's hand.

Wilson dropped to his knees and took Chris's cock in his mouth. Chris opened his mouth in a wordless cry, hot water from the shower running down his chest and onto Wilson's bobbing head. Chris reached for the dial and ratcheted the water flow up a notch. It came cascading down, drenching Wilson's hair. Wilson tipped his head back slightly, and Chris thrust deeper inside his mouth, so deep he was surprised that Wilson could take it. He relished the sensation of water and Wilson's saliva mingling together and running over his cock, then he came with a final thrust and a groan. He heard Wilson choking slightly, and gulping a mixture of water and fluids below.

Then Wilson was on his feet again, and his mouth on Chris's, and Chris swallowed a mouthful of water mixed with his own semen, the salty taste strong in his mouth and on his lips, fuck it, before the water coming down from above washed it away. Chris reached out again for Wilson's cock, and found it alert and straining; a couple of swift rolls and Wilson came with a short sharp cry, spurting onto Chris's stomach and chest. Chris ran a hand across himself, covering his hand in the stickiness, then stuck his fingers into Wilson's mouth. Wilson licked and sucked at his fingers, and then, slowly, the water began to wash all that away too.

Chris leaned against the shower wall, breathing heavily, Wilson's head resting on his shoulder. God, there was just nothing in the world like sex with James Wilson.

A swift rub-down and hurried dinner later, they were on the way back to Princeton. On the long drive through the dark, Wilson fell asleep, and Chris hummed along to the radio and thought back to how they'd first met.


	2. First Time

To be precise, they'd _first_ met almost exactly ten years ago. House and Wilson had been on a road trip, they'd met Chris in a bar, Chris had hit on Wilson, and both House and Wilson had ended up spending a couple of days staying at his place by the sea. They'd been like ships passing in the night, though, and Chris had certainly never expected to see Wilson again.

And then they'd met again three months ago, completely by accident, in the clinic at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.

Chris had been passing through Princeton one afternoon. It had been a warm day and he'd taken off his jacket. He'd come off his motorcycle driving through an unfamiliar junction, when a car had come at him from a unexpected angle. He'd got up immediately and carried on traveling for a short while, but he'd rubbed his right arm raw against the tarmac, taking the skin off all the way up the arm. Soon it was hurting so much he didn't trust himself to drive all the way home. Someone told him that Princeton Plainsboro ran a free drop-in clinic. He figured he'd get patched up there, find a hotel in Princeton for the night while he recovered, and head on home the next day.

He'd been waiting nearly an hour in the clinic, and was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. His arm was throbbing, his hair was tangled and matted, his T-shirt scruffy and bloodstained, and he was starting to wonder if he'd made a mistake in coming here.

And just as he was on the verge of giving up and leaving, a man in a white coat striding briskly past suddenly stopped dead next to him. Chris looked up, and recognized him instantly.

"Holy fuck," Chris said, amazed. "If it isn't James Wilson."

"Yeah." Wilson put his head on one side and regarded Chris with astonishment. "My word. It's been a long time."

"Yeah." Chris looked him up and down. Pretty boy, large surprised brown eyes, tall, although a little shorter than Chris was. Ten years older than when Chris had last seen him, but just as cute as he had ever had been. He was wearing a slightly dorkish sweater vest and a rather regrettable tie, which somehow only enhanced the charm.

"You're a proper grown up doctor now, are you?" Chris asked.

"Yes, I work here. And what on earth are you doing here?" Wilson's gaze fell on Chris's arm. "You've hurt your arm?"

"Came off my bike," Chris said gruffly, trying not to hold it too stiffly.

Wilson's eyes dissolved with concern. "You should've gone to the ER."

"I thought I was OK. I am OK. It's just a scrape. Hey, any chance of bumping me up the line?" Chris asked hopefully. "I've been waiting an hour."

Wilson glanced at his watch. "I've got a few minutes, I'll look at it. Give me a sec." He looked at Chris. A corner of his mouth twisted upwards. "Remind me what your name is."

Chris told him, and watched as Wilson strode up to the nurse's station, had a word with a stern looking nurse with a sharp nose, then rifled through a pile of files. He extracted one, turned and nodded at Chris. Chris stood up, and followed Wilson down a corridor to an empty exam room.

Inside, Chris sat down on the table and took off his leather jacket. Wilson took one look at the raw red skin running up to his shoulder, and said, "And the T-shirt."

Chris pulled the black T-shirt off over his head, trying not to wince as he moved his arm. He watched Wilson's eyes move professionally over his arm, then not so professionally over his torso; Chris worked out, and his body was taut and muscular, his stomach firm and flat. Chris caught Wilson's eye and smiled; Wilson smiled back, then dropped his eyes and turned his full attention to Chris's arm.

God, the chemistry was still there, Chris thought wonderingly. Wilson tutted, told him again he should have gone to the ER, and cleaned his arm. He felt Wilson's fingers move gently over his skin, probing for any damage. Wilson's touch was light, but it tingled and burned, and not just because of Chris's injury. Chris looked at Wilson out of the corner of his eye; the doctor in the white coat ostensibly just doing his job, yet those big brown eyes somehow telling a different story. Chris shivered a little, and knew if it wasn't for the stabbing pain all the way up to his shoulder, he would have definitely had a erection by now. From the look in Wilson's eye, he rather thought the doctor was already in that position, although the white coat masked any evidence of it.

"No broken bones, no deep cuts, you were lucky," Wilson said eventually. "Is it just your arm? You didn't hit your head? Or hurt yourself anywhere else?"

"No," Chris assured him, and looked at him archly. "Although I'll take my pants off if you want to check."

Wilson looked down. Chris was wearing black leather biker's pants that fit snugly. Chris was pleased to see Wilson smile broadly. "That won't be necessary. And patients shouldn't hit on their doctors."

"Then doctors shouldn't look at their patients like that," Chris replied without hesitation.

"I'm not—" Wilson started to say, then stopped and laughed. "I'll dress your arm. You shouldn't really ride your bike for a bit, try and give your arm a rest. Are you going far? Do you still live down by the coast?"

"Yeah. Same place, you'll remember it. But I thought I'd stop in a hotel in Princeton for tonight, go home tomorrow instead."

"Good idea." Wilson dressed Chris's arm and wrote him a prescription for painkillers.

As Chris took the piece of paper, his fingertips brushed Wilson's palm in a deliberate manner. Wilson didn't pull his hand away, but lingered slightly, and Chris felt Wilson's own thumb glide over the back of his hand, ever so lightly.

Chris said casually, "Want to go get a coffee or something, catch up?"

"I'm afraid you've already made me late for my rounds," Wilson said, his tone regretful. He hesitated, then went on, "If you're staying in Princeton this evening, we could do dinner perhaps, if you don't have other plans?"

"Now I'm sure doctors aren't supposed to invite their patients out for dinner," Chris said with a smile and a tilt of his head.

"Absolutely not," Wilson agreed with a solemn look and a tilt of the head back. "But you won't be my patient after this. I've just patched you up, you'll go home and see your own doctor, right?"

"Right. Dinner would be good." Chris grinned and met Wilson's eye. "You're the local. Let me know when and where."

Wilson considered for a moment, then suggested an Italian restaurant on the other side of town, eight o'clock. Chris absorbed directions, and agreed.

Chris got his prescription from the hospital pharmacy and left the hospital, riding his motorcycle awkwardly but carefully. He found where the Italian was first, and then checked into the nearest hotel, where he crashed for the next few hours, let the painkillers kick in, and mused on how strange it was to run into James Wilson again.

He got up in the evening, showered, changed, and turned up at the restaurant a few minutes after eight. He thought it was probably fifty-fifty whether Wilson would show or not. Wilson was clearly a successful established doctor, working at a good hospital. No particular reason he'd want to hook up with someone he'd had a brief fling with ten years ago. He had probably just been being polite earlier; he'd think it over and perhaps decide it was best not to show.

But Wilson was there already, sitting at a table. He'd lost the white coat, of course, and the sweater vest, but was still wearing his work shirt and tie. It was warm in the restaurant, and he'd rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie. Chris's eye was immediately drawn to Wilson's forearms and neck. He could see the tiniest glimpse of chest hair peeking out from the shirt collar.

"Hey," Chris said, dropping into the chair opposite. Wilson's brown eyes flicked over him. Chris leaned back confidently, knowing he looked a lot better than he had done that afternoon after an hour waiting in that clinic. His hair was now clean and combed. He was wearing a casual shirt with several buttons undone at the neck; it hung loosely on him and hid the heavy dressing on his arm.

"Hey. How's your arm?" Wilson asked immediately.

"Much better, thanks." Chris smiled warmly at Wilson, and Wilson smiled warmly back.

They slipped into conversation as readily as they had clicked ten years before. The food was good, the wine Chris picked out was very good, the restaurant was peaceful and candlelit, and altogether it was quite the most pleasant evening Chris could recall having in a long time.

They talked mostly about work through antipasti and the main course. Chris explained to Wilson how he still owned the bar, club and restaurant Wilson had visited ten years ago; how he'd expanded over time, and now ran a string of such establishments up the coast. Recently he'd started a part-time MBA up at Rutgers, having decided after running his own businesses for many years that it would be interesting to learn how much of the theory he'd been putting into practice without knowing it. He drove up for classes every week or so and usually stayed a couple of nights. This time he'd been driving back via Princeton, en route to visit one of his bars.

"And what about you?" Chris asked, twirling spaghetti round his fork. "You were a resident in Boston when we met before, weren't you?"

"That's right. Lot of water under the bridge since then." Wilson outlined various moves up the medical profession career ladder, including being employed as an attending at Princeton Plainsboro a few years ago, and concluding with how he'd been made Head of Oncology just a few months before.

"Congratulations." Chris was impressed. Head of Oncology sounded like quite an achievement. Chris wasn't absolutely sure how old Wilson was, but he couldn't be any older than his late thirties. And being naturally baby-faced, he looked even younger than that.

Dessert arrived, and as Chris dug his spoon into his ice cream, he was emboldened enough to move on from the work arena into more personal matters.

"I seem to remember you were married when we met before," Chris probed carefully.

"Yeah." Wilson shook his head. "Bonnie. Well, that didn't work out."

"I figured." Chris had noticed the lack of wedding ring. "And... how's House these days?"

"Oh, he's still very much around," Wilson said immediately, and then his face fell. He took a mouthful of cheesecake and went on slowly, "He works with me at Princeton Plainsboro. A lot's happened to him over the last ten years too."

Haltingly, Wilson told Chris about how House had suffered a blood clot in his leg some two years ago now, and the resulting infarction had left him crippled, in constant chronic pain, dependant on painkilling drugs, and walking with a cane. Wilson didn't go into an awful lot of detail, but Chris gleaned without difficulty that the whole experience had been extremely traumatic for Wilson too. He could see Wilson visibly hurting through the recollection.

"And his girlfriend left him, too," Wilson concluded. "They'd been together five years, lived together. She took six months of crap from him afterwards, and just couldn't take it any more." He sighed. "He's still not over her. Doesn't seem like he ever will be."

"I can't actually imagine House being crippled," Chris said, after a pause. "I remember him swimming— running—" _fucking you from behind while you were fucking me_. "Riding my Harley."

"House hasn't ridden a motorcycle since the infarction," Wilson said flatly. "He sold his own right afterwards, when he was still in a wheelchair and we thought he might not get out of it."

Chris was silent. There didn't seem to be much to say. They ordered coffee.

As the coffee arrived, Wilson asked the question he had clearly been psyching himself up to ask: "So... how's Edward?"

Chris had known Wilson would ask this, had tried to prepare himself to talk about it, but it was still like being kicked in the gut all over again. He took a gulp of coffee and got the worst of it over with quickly.

"Edward's dead, he died two years ago."

"He's _dead_?" Wilson asked, horrified.

"He was riding pillion with me. A car turned the wrong way out of a side street in front of us. I braked hard, he fell off to one side, right underneath a truck," Chris recited swiftly. "He was killed on the spot. I walked away without a scratch." He swallowed. "I didn't ride my bike for about a year afterwards either... been trying to get back into it recently. I don't carry passengers any more, though."

Wilson's brown eyes were deep pools of compassion and concern. He reached across the table and took Chris's hand. Chris found himself with a large lump in his throat and looked away. Damn, he hadn't gotten this upset for _ages._ Must be the wine.

They sat like that for a few minutes while Chris gradually regained his composure. Eventually he looked back at Wilson. Wilson had his eyes down and was stroking Chris's wrist gently with his thumb; Chris found this strangely comforting.

After they left the restaurant, they went back to Chris's hotel room together without even discussing it.

They were onto each other as soon as the door closed behind them, attacking each others' mouths, tugging desperately at the other's clothes. Equally hot and horny for the other. Each trying to blot out his own lonely void with passion and sexual thrill.

And by God it worked. Wilson took charge, in a gentle way; pushing Chris to sit down on the edge of the bed, taking Chris's cock, already swollen, in his mouth. Chris leaned back on his hands and groaned at the sensation of Wilson's mouth lapping, sucking, sliding back and forth; bringing him to the point of climax in no time at all, then pulling back, making him wait.

"Don't tease me," Chris growled, his breathing ragged. His memories of Wilson ten years ago were returning with a vengeance. No House this time, but James Wilson was just as much of a turn-on as ever.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Wilson breathed back. He was now rolling on a condom, which he'd taken out of his wallet. "Got anything slippery to hand?"

"Funnily enough, I didn't think I was coming to Princeton to get laid," Chris retorted, glancing sideways at the nightstand. He _did_ have moisturizer. He shoved aside the thought that that small bottle had cost forty bucks, reached for it, and handed it to Wilson.

"Turn round," Wilson said, uncapping the bottle.

Chris turned around, dropping to his knees on the floor and leaning against the bed. He shut his eyes and let himself just feel, Wilson's fingers probing his ass. His cock began to jerk and jump of its own accord. Oh _yes,_ there was Wilson's cock, hard, thrusting, pushing up inside him until Chris felt ready to burst, and then he felt Wilson's hand reaching round, on his cock now, and Chris exploded in a burst of ecstasy. Wilson finished bringing him off, then thrust very firmly up inside Chris one more time; Chris felt his ass clenching and shuddering as Wilson came with a strangled gasp.

They stayed locked together for a few minutes, Wilson's head resting on Chris's back. Then Wilson pulled out as gently as possible, Chris still gritting his teeth as he did so, and the two of them struggled up onto the bed and lay down.

As he drifted off to sleep, Wilson curled up beside him, Chris wondered if Wilson would be there when he woke up the following morning. Perhaps not. Perhaps it would just be another fleeting encounter to add to the one ten years ago.

* * *

Wilson was not only there in the morning, but stayed to shower and breakfast with Chris at the hotel before leaving for work. And having ascertained that it was not much trouble for Chris to detour via Princeton on his way to Rutgers again next week, they fixed another date for a week's time.

The last thing Chris said before Wilson left was, "Do you prefer being called James? Or Wilson? I think of you as Wilson because that's what House always called you."

Wilson smiled. "I'll answer to either. Using surnames is a doctor thing. I've been Wilson to almost everyone since I was a med student. House calls me Jimmy sometimes, if he's after something."

"So who calls you James?" Chris was curious.

Wilson considered. "My parents. My brother. My ex-wives. And girlfriends."

Chris had no wish to be bracketed with them. "Wilson it is then."

"Fine." Wilson smiled again, and left.


	3. Face to Face

Somehow, despite living an hour and a half's drive apart, they found a routine where they saw each other twice a week. Mid-week, Chris would usually be up at Rutgers for a day or two, and would drop by Princeton for a night. He stayed in a hotel, and Wilson met him after work (work permitting) for a meal, and then back to Chris's hotel room. Weekends, Wilson drove down to the Jersey shore to stay with Chris for a night or two, usually Saturday, occasionally Friday or Sunday (work dictating). The sex was great. The company was surprisingly good too.

After a few weeks of this, Wilson said to Chris over dinner one evening in Princeton, "I have to introduce you to House."

"Is that really necessary?" Chris was reluctant.

"Yes. Because he's already figured out I'm... seeing someone, and if I don't tell him who, then he'll just turn up somewhere at some hideously inappropriate moment to find out for himself. And we'll both die of embarrassment. Best just to face it now."

Chris was dubious, but felt he had no choice but to let Wilson handle House in his own way.

They drove down to House's apartment in Wilson's car after dinner. The sound of a piano being played could be heard out in the hall.

"You hang on out here for a sec," Wilson said to Chris, as he fished out a key, knocked and let himself in without waiting for an answer.

Chris hung back out of sight obediently, peering in sideways through the door of 221B. House's apartment was cluttered and untidy, and needed a lick of paint, but was also warm and tastefully furnished. The piano stopped playing as Wilson went in.

"House, there's somebody I'd like you to meet," Wilson said without preamble.

"God, don't tell me I'm getting to meet the secret boyfriend," House's voice rasped through the air like a hacksaw. "If you'd warned me, I'd have baked a cake."

Wilson was too tense to play along. "Actually, you've already met him. Just—some time ago." He turned towards the door. "Chris?"

Chris came in, embarrassed, and feeling uncannily like some sort of show animal being put on display. House was still sitting behind the piano. He had more stubble than Chris remembered him having, his hair was thinner and his face more hollow; he hadn't aged as well as Wilson had. Those blue eyes, though, were as clear and sharp as they had been ten years ago.

House recognized Chris immediately and his jaw dropped.

There was a short, awkward silence. Wilson shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

"Wilson," House said eventually, his voice taut, "Tell me you haven't been secretly fucking him for the last ten years."

"What? No!" Wilson said, surprised, vehement. "We met three weeks ago, in the clinic at the hospital. Purely by accident."

"And it was lust at first sight all over again." House was loud now, and angry. "What a heartwarming story. Christ almighty, I do not fucking believe it." He looked at Chris. "And what happened to _your_ significant other?" House put his head on one side and dredged up the name without difficulty. "Edward?"

"House," Wilson said warningly, but House was plowing on.

"Did he go back to his wife again? Or screw you over with someone at your gay bar? Must have been bad, for you to hook up with his look-alike here instead—"

Chris would have stood for a lot from House at that moment, but a knife in the ribs over Edward was not one of them. He put his hands over his ears, blotting out House's voice from his head, then turned on his heel and walked out swiftly into the street. He heard Wilson's voice raised in recrimination at House behind him, but didn't listen. Didn't want to listen. Didn't want to have to hear yet another person in this world being told that Edward was dead. Each time the hard fact hammered home into his heart, like a nail into a coffin.

Chris hailed a cab, and went back to his hotel room. Once there, he opened the minibar and took out all the miniature bottles of whiskies and spirits. Chris wasn't in the habit of binge drinking—he appreciated decent whisky too much to abuse it—but right now he had to do something, anything, to get rid of the pain jarring his chest, knocking at his skull. He turned the TV on loud, not caring what was on, sat on the bed and drank each bottle in turn. His brain fogged comfortably a little more with each one, and he slumped down at the end and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

He woke up an hour later, feeling very sick, and just made it to the bathroom in time to stick his head down the toilet, before throwing up with a vengeance.

He sat on the bathroom floor for a while, recovering, then hauled himself to his feet, flushed the toilet, and brushed his teeth to get rid of the taste of cheap alcohol mingled with vomit. He splashed some cold water on his face and felt a little better. He walked back into the room and sat down, his thoughts becoming more coherent.

His main thought was that he was unlikely to hear from Wilson ever again. He wasn't surprised; House had always been a possessive son-of-a-bitch, Chris remembered that well. And he was under no illusions, this wasn't a fairy tale, Wilson wasn't about to dump House and waltz off into the sunset with him, even if he wanted him to...

He fell asleep sitting in an armchair, and the knock at the door later woke him with a jump. He looked at his watch; it was past midnight. He got up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and went to open the door.

It was Wilson, big brown eyes on full appealing puppy dog mode.

Chris let him in, unsure what to do, what to say.

"I'm sorry about House," Wilson said, his tone apologetic.

Chris shrugged, nodded. Wilson stepped towards him tentatively, reaching out an arm, placing it on Chris's shoulder. Chris, lonely and miserable, responded instinctively to the offer of warmth. He leaned into Wilson and rested his forehead against Wilson's neck. Wilson breathed quietly into Chris's shoulder.

Then Chris suddenly jerked his head backwards and stared at Wilson's face.

Chris wasn't sure how he knew, whether it was scent or touch or body language that he was reading at some unconscious primeval level, but he knew it for a fact: Wilson had just had _sex._ With House, of course. He'd left them there in House's apartment and they'd ended up having sex.

Wilson read Chris's realization, and colored slightly.

A rational part of Chris knew he ought to be insulted, indignant, demand an explanation; but a far stronger urge took over, made him reach out and pull Wilson towards him violently and fasten his lips on Wilson's mouth. Chris tasted coffee and cigars, tasted House lingering right there in Wilson's kiss, knew for certain that House had had his dick up Wilson's ass only a short time ago, and suddenly Chris couldn't wait to do the same. He reached for Wilson's shirt front, and started undoing buttons rapidly. Wilson made a little _'Mmph'_ noise of surprise, but responded readily, reaching for Chris's fly. Chris tugged off his own and Wilson's clothes rapidly and pushed Wilson towards the bed.

"You fucking slut," he whispered into Wilson's ear as he pushed Wilson down onto his back. "Both of us in one night, that's what you want, right?"

"Uh." Wilson didn't seem capable of coherent speech, but his eyes shone and his pupils dilated. Chris moved Wilson's legs apart and reached down, feeling for Wilson's ass; Christ almighty, still slippery, no need for more lube even. Chris rolled on a condom as rapidly as possible, took a deep breath and thrust up inside Wilson. He watched Wilson's face crease with pain, which contested with slowing dawning pleasure, as Chris thrust again and again, barely thinking of anything any more other than that _fucker _House had been doing this to Wilson probably only an hour ago, and Wilson had gotten straight up and come over here without as much as stopping for a shower. And somehow this was the biggest turn-on Chris had had in a long time. He thrust again up inside Wilson, Wilson's ass tight round his cock-but not as tight as it might have been-and came, God, pumping deep inside that _beautiful slut_ of a man, James Wilson.

As he pulled out and sank slowly onto the bed beside Wilson, his hand brushed Wilson's cock, which fairly leaped under his touch. He'd barely touched Wilson's cock up until now, had been too intent on his own orgasm. Now Chris shut his eyes, took Wilson's cock in his fist and jerked him off swiftly; Wilson came with no more than a couple of strangled breaths.

As Chris drifted off to sleep, he knew that in the morning he ought to be insulted, indignant, demand an explanation—but he also knew he wouldn't. James Wilson was just too fucking irresistible.

And this whole thing with House complicated it all, but by God it added something into the mix as well.

END OF CHAPTER

* * *

**Author's note: **You can now go on to chapter 4 - or alternatively, below is chapter 3 all over again but this time from House's POV.

* * *

**Title**: The Story of Chris: additional scene. Chapter 3.1 - Meeting the Secret Boyfriend  
**Author:** hwshipper  
**Summary:** Additional scene from The Story of Chris: House meets Chris, retold **from House's POV.**

**The Story of Chris: additional scene**. **Chapter 3.1 - Meeting the Secret Boyfriend**

House was playing the piano and not thinking about anything at all, when there was a familiar knock on the door followed by a key turning in the lock.

Now there was a surprise. House hadn't expected to see Wilson tonight. House had been observing Wilson's movements for a few weeks now, and had spotted a trend; mysteriously busy on one night mid-week, and absent most of the weekend. He'd thought this was one of those mid-week nights. He'd even thought this evening might be the one to try following Wilson, find out what the hell he was up to (a boyfriend, it had to be; Wilson didn't usually keep girlfriends this close to his chest, as it were), but his leg was aching even more than usual this evening. He'd figured it could wait another week.

He stopped playing as Wilson came in. It was obvious Wilson wasn't just casually dropping by; he looked tense, wound up tight as a guitar string. House heard movement in the hallway; Wilson wasn't alone.

"House, there's somebody I'd like you to meet," Wilson said, confirming his suspicions.

Fan-fucking-tastic. Just what he really felt like dealing with right now.

"God, don't tell me I'm getting to meet the secret boyfriend," House rasped. "If you'd warned me, I'd have baked a cake."

"Actually, you've already met him. Just—some time ago." Wilson turned towards the door. "Chris?"

The man who came hesitantly through the door had soft gray eyes, fair hair and smooth cheeks. He was wearing a dark T-shirt and a biker's leather jacket and pants. House felt his jaw drop. The face had aged, there were lines creasing around the eyes and the forehead that hadn't been there before. But he knew _exactly _who this was; Chris, the man with the Harley. House vividly remembered the bike, much more than he remembered the man. Riding down the coastal road that night, whistling along faster and faster...

There was a pause while House digested the new information. Ten _years_ it had been. Ten years since they'd been on that trip down the coast. House had walked into that bar and seen this man sitting far too close to Wilson, and ended the evening watching him fuck Wilson up the ass in that motel room. What the hell was he doing here, now, in Princeton? And wasn't he supposed to have gotten back with his Wilsonesque ex-boyfriend?

Wilson shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Chris stood there, arms folded, looking awkward but impassive, and not at all apologetic. He was a big guy; not quite as tall as House, but bulkier. And with muscle too; House could well recall the firm chest and stomach. In fact, Chris didn't look like he'd put on more than an ounce of fat in the last decade. Bastard.

"Wilson," House said eventually, his voice taut, "Tell me you haven't been secretly fucking him for the last ten years."

"What? No!" Wilson said, surprised, vehement. "We met three weeks ago, in the clinic at the hospital. Purely by accident."

The memories were flooding back now. "And it was lust at first sight all over again." House was loud now, and angry. "What a heartwarming story. Christ almighty, I do not fucking believe it." He looked at Chris. "And what happened to _your_ significant other?" House put his head on one side and plucked the name readily from the air. "Edward?"

"House," Wilson said warningly, but House was plowing on.

"Did he go back to his wife again? Or screw you over with someone at your gay bar? Must have been bad, for you to hook up with his look-alike here instead—"

"_House._ SHUT. THE FUCK. _UP!"_ Wilson's voice was a shout, and it did temporarily silence House, but Chris had already put his hands over his ears and walked out of the apartment. Mission accomplished, as far as House was concerned. Wilson stared after the departing Chris, then turned back towards House and glared at him.

"House. Edward is _dead_. He died two years ago in a motorcycle accident."

House was taken aback, but tried not to show it. "Well, firstly, how the hell was I supposed to know that? And secondly, _I don't give a shit!_ What do you expect me to do? Welcome him to the family with open arms?" House spread his arms and addressed an imaginary Chris. "Hey, come in, sit down, have a drink, blow Wilson while you're at it--"

_"House!"_

"But now you've told, me, it explains a lot," House went on. He mused for a few more seconds, his brain swiftly processing possibilities. "Actually, it explains everything."

"I'm sorry?" Wilson folded his arms and stared at House. "You've known this for all of two minutes and you can explain _everything_?"

"So Edward got killed in a motorcycle accident. He must've been on that Harley, with Chris driving. Meaning Chris is undoubtedly completely screwed up with grief, compounded by stupid self-destructive guilt," House rattled off. "_You're_ attracted to him so you can do your emotional vampire thing. _He's _attracted to you because he can pretend he's fucking his dead boyfriend."

"House, you are talking out of your ass!" Wilson's tone didn't match his words and he didn't meet House's eye. House was sure he'd hit the nail right on the head.

"You want to tell me I'm wrong?" House asked in a voice of supreme skepticism. "You're both completely well-balanced and in _lurve_?"

Wilson sat on the couch and covered his face with his hands. Quietly, so quiet House could barely hear him, he said, "He's a good guy, House. I like him a lot."

House couldn't have been more astonished if Wilson had spontaneously combusted. House had expected bluster, prevarication, denial; instead he got Wilson admitting to... feelings? It made his leg hurt just thinking about the implications.

His Vicodin were sitting on the coffee table. House reluctantly stood up and came out from behind the piano. He sat on the couch next to Wilson and popped a pill.

Wilson took his head out of his hands and turned towards House. House was aware of large brown eyes like liquid chocolate, focused on him with a look of mute appeal. And then they started kissing, because that was the most natural thing in the world to do.

As soon as House felt Wilson's lips on his own, felt the warmth of Wilson's body just a few inches away, lust flared in his loins. He sometimes forgot how goddam delicious and irresistible James Wilson could be. No wonder this _Chris_ wanted a part of it.

Time to reassert his position here.

"Bedroom. Now," House muttered.

He was gratified to see Wilson's eyes glaze over and turn dark with desire. Wilson stood up and headed towards the bedroom without a word. House hoisted himself to his feet and followed more slowly, gripping furniture; he'd left his cane propped up against the piano.

In the bedroom, he found Wilson stripping rapidly and already semi-hard; House sat down on the edge of the bed and undid his own pants. Wilson moved right there between his knees, pulled out his cock and put it in his mouth. House closed his eyes and drew a sharp breath as Wilson sucked and licked, from the top of the shaft down to the delicate tip, nibbling, nuzzling.

House bucked his hips forward, pressing in as far as he could. He felt Wilson's throat constrict and contract, the gag reflex, and wondered whether to come like that, to pump hard down Wilson's mouth and make him choke and swallow every last drop, the _slut,_ but instead House pulled back. He wanted to see that pretty little ass under his hands, feel it move underneath him.

Wilson looked up at House, then stood up, reaching for the lube in the bedside drawer. House held out a hand for it, then nodded down at the bed. Wilson lay down sideways on the bed, and House reached for his ass: reached between those firm butt cheeks, watched Wilson wriggle and squirm and then gasp loudly as House's fingers--one, two, _three_\--disappeared up inside him. Always so fucking tight; House moved to work him, to stretch him, careful but brisk, he wanted to get in there himself.

"Hands and knees," he hissed, and Wilson propped himself up, while House divested himself of his pants and T-shirt, and rolled on a condom. Then House moved to cover Wilson, gripping hold of the headboard with one hand to get as much weight as possible off his bad leg. They didn't do it like this that often these days, House just couldn't kneel for very long--but when they managed it, by God they managed it.

House guided his cock, rock hard with anticipation now, towards Wilson's ass: then pushed firmly in. Slowly, steady, _all_ the way in, Christ how much further could Wilson take him? 'Course, he had another man's cock stretching him sometimes now, too--House expelled that thought firmly from his mind, and thrust. Wilson was _his_; every deep, rolling stroke proved it; every clench from that tight little ass. His free hand grasped Wilson's hip, pulling him back to meet each thrust. Wilson gasped and strained, and took it, and moved with him. The fucking _slut_. Wilson had freed a hand of his own, balancing on one hand and two knees while jerking himself off.

House could feel beads of sweat on his forehead as he pressed in relentlessly, rocking backwards and forwards. A few more thrusts and his leg was going to give out, but that should just be enough. _One--more--shove_\--and House came with a strangled cry and a rush of adrenalin. As he pressed down against Wilson's back, he felt Wilson's own orgasm, Wilson twisting and thrashing underneath him.

Heart hammering against his ribs, panting hard, House pulled out and away from Wilson, and sank down onto a pillow. His leg was angry and House knew he'd pay for the physical exertion later. He didn't care about that right now.

Wilson flopped onto his back next to House, his chest moving up and down in small, quick gasps. The two of them lay side by side for a minute or two.

Then Wilson muttered, "I won't see him again."

House basked briefly in the glow of victory, and found himself now able to be magnanimous. "See him again if you want. I don't give a damn."

Wilson turned his head to look at House. "Seriously?"

"Uh huh. Just don't come crying to _me_ when you realize he's only interested in _you_ because he can see dear dead Edward in your face."

Wilson was silent for a minute, then said, "I'll take that risk." He sat up and reached for his clothes. "I need to catch him tonight, before he leaves Princeton. He might already have checked out of his hotel..."

House watched as Wilson got dressed swiftly, then left the room. Wilson returned briefly to toss House his pill bottle, unasked: House caught it in one hand, Wilson nodded, and was gone.

House gulped down a Vicodin, lay back and it occurred to him to wonder if Wilson had meant it when he had offered not to see Chris again. Possibly not. Probably not; House knew Wilson could manipulate him well enough when he tried, and half the skill was in House not realizing when he was doing it, even afterwards. A risky strategy, though; Wilson couldn't have been sure that House would react as he had.

Anyway, it didn't matter, Wilson could have his fling. It would never end well, probably wouldn't even last long, two such royally screwed-up individuals. House just hoped Chris didn't hurt Wilson too much before the inevitable messy break-up. He'd have to try and talk to Chris at some point and fathom out his intentions.


	4. Exhibitionism and Voyeurism

"It is just so cool that you have a boat," Wilson said enthusiastically.

It was Saturday afternoon, and Chris and Wilson were out on Chris's boat. Chris was at the tiller and Wilson was sitting next to him, looking out to sea, his eyes bright in the sunlight.

"Part-own," Chris corrected. Chris co-owned the boat with a friend of his called Linus and a couple of other guys; Linus was away on business more often than not, and the other guys lived quite a way away from the sea, so Chris was able to use it pretty much when he wanted.

"Still cool." Wilson eyed the controls. "Can I have a go?"

"You sail?" Chris said, cautious about entrusting the boat to anyone else. He would have his co-owners to answer to if anything went wrong.

"Used to." Wilson hesitated. "House and me used to go sailing sometimes... Haven't done it for years though."

Chris was spotting a theme. Invariably, Wilson had once been good but was now rusty at whatever activity they tried. Last week it had been golf. Before that, fishing. Chris was coming to realize gradually that Wilson had stopped doing a lot of things when House had been unable to do them any more. He still had some difficulty reconciling the fact that House was a cripple with the recollection of House ten years before. Chris had bumped into House a couple of times in Princeton since that first confrontation in House's apartment, just for a few moments at a time, and they had... _circled each other warily_ was the best description Chris could think of.

"Nobody else you could sail with?" Chris asked carefully.

"Not really," Wilson said, now sounding uncomfortable.

Chris thought about how demanding of Wilson House seemed to be even now, and wondered what it had been like just after House had been crippled. He suspected having House around didn't allow Wilson much time for other friends.

He let Wilson sail for a bit, and then they stopped and just let the boat drift for a while. Wilson stretched out on the deck and fell asleep. Chris watched him fondly. He was coming to very much enjoy these long, drowsy, relaxed day times at the weekend with Wilson—out at sea, on the beach, in the pool. Wilson could spend hours just sitting in Chris's kitchen with a tall drink, a newspaper and the sea view, and Chris could spend hours just watching him.

* * *

In contrast, their Saturday evenings and night times were busy and hyperactive, as they usually spent them at Chris's club a little way down the coast; the club Wilson and House had visited during their brief encounter with Chris ten years before. Chris liked to go there on Saturday night, its busiest time. He usually spent a bit of time up in his office there sorting out paperwork. Meanwhile Wilson hung out in the main bar downstairs, watching ball games on the big screen TV, dining on burgers and fries, and occasionally bopping along on the dance floor. Later they would meet in the upstairs bar, which was invitation only, and drink good quality whisky and play poker. Within a short space of time all the staff and most of the upstairs bar regulars knew Wilson by sight.

Chris was in his office in was early hours of the morning the day after they'd been sailing. The light was dim, the room lit only by his desk lamp. He was at his desk musing over accounts when suddenly the door opened and two men came in. One was a guy Chris knew slightly called Damian; he didn't know the other. But from the way they were clinging to each other, it looked like Damian knew him well.

"Hey, Chris," Damian said breathlessly. "We were just making out downstairs and your bartender told us to _get a room already_." His companion giggled into his neck, and Damian carried on, "Wondered if we could use the casting couch?"

Chris had an old couch in the corner of his office which had been nicknamed the _casting couch_ many years ago.

"Be my guest," Chris said smoothly, putting down his pen and leaning back in his chair. "If you don't mind an audience."

"Sure thing." Damian shut the door behind him and practically fell onto the couch with his companion.

Chris felt the stirrings of an erection as he watched the men on the couch grapple with each other. And then he felt the ghost of a breath on his neck, followed by teeth gently nibbling his ear. Chris hadn't forgotten Wilson was in the room, curled up, half asleep, in an armchair in the corner. He'd wanted to see what happened, how Wilson reacted, figuring Wilson was quite capable of letting him know if he wasn't happy. But Wilson was staring at the couch in fascination.

Wilson continued to nuzzle Chris's shoulder as the men on the couch started to remove clothes. Chris stretched out a little in the chair and reached backwards to ruffle Wilson's hair. The two of them watched for a few more minutes, and as Damian and his companion really started to get serious, Wilson moved to come and perch on the side of Chris's chair. It was a large leather desk chair and there was just room for Wilson to sit, half on Chris's knee. Chris put an arm round Wilson's neck and kissed the back of his head. Wilson shifted his weight across slightly so his ass rested partly on Chris's groin; Chris moved a little, and rubbed his cock up against Wilson's jean-clad ass.

The men on the couch were both on hands and knees and really fucking with a vengeance now; Chris could hear Wilson's breathing getting faster. Then Wilson swung round to straddle Chris on the chair. Their mouths met and they kissed hungrily, passionately, and each groped to undo the other's fly. Wilson murmured "_Chris,"_ as their cocks met, throbbing, and Chris bit his lip and tasted blood as he felt the head of his cock rubbing up against the very tip of Wilson's, sensitive skin sliding against sensitive skin, _fuck! _He reached out to cup Wilson's balls in his hand. Then at the sound of the men in the background reaching a noisy climax, Wilson cried out almost in an echo. He came all over Chris's chest, spurting hot come over Chris's shirt front. Chris grasped his own cock and came almost immediately himself, jerking madly against Wilson's body.

Afterwards Wilson slumped down against Chris's chest, breathing heavily. Chris opened his eyes a moment later to peer over Wilson's shoulder, and saw the two men entwined on the couch both looking at them with wide, amused, eyes.

"Thanks for the show, guys," Chris muttered.

"Can see you enjoyed it," Damian said, his voice puffing. "You should join us over here next time."

"Maybe," Chris responded, and felt Wilson's breath quicken a little on his neck.

A little later, after the occupants of the casting couch had left, Wilson remarked to Chris softly, "You like to watch. And to be watched."

"We've all got our kinks, right?" Chris stroked Wilson's hair. Wilson leaned into his hand. "It's not a big thing. I just take it when it happens." He looked at Wilson. "But you already knew that, didn't you? You got it all first hand when we met ten years ago."

"Yeah." Wilson agreed, eyes distant now, remembering. Chris thought about it too; how he'd fucked Wilson in that motel room with House sitting there watching; how he'd sat on the beach, watching House fuck Wilson into the sand.

Chris wondered, a little uncomfortably, what it would be like to do such a thing now. He knew it wouldn't be like it had been before; they'd all been strangers then. Chris knew both too much and too little now about House and Wilson and their emotional fuckwittage. He decided not to think about it; he might run into House occasionally, but it wasn't as if the opportunity was likely to occur.

But the opportunity did occur with others. A couple of weeks after that first voyeuristic occasion, Damian turned up again in Chris's office one evening with the same proposal and a different companion. Wilson was actually sitting on the casting couch when they came in the office this time, and he didn't move, he stayed there close to the action; and when Damian reached out for him, hissing, _"Wanna fuck me, gorgeous?"_ Wilson nodded, eyes huge and glowing, and went along with it.

Chris didn't join in, except that he gently rolled the condom onto Wilson's dick himself, but found the whole thing completely erotic and jerked off while sitting at his desk chair a few feet away.


	5. Role Playing

Chris next encountered House a couple of weeks later. The day before Chris was due to drop by Princeton one time mid-week, Wilson called him and told him he might not want to bother.

"I'm in bed with flu." He sounded miserable and hoarse. "Probably will be for a couple of days. A clinic patient sneezed right in my face yesterday, and I felt like shit this morning."

"Geez. Sorry to hear that." Chris was sympathetic. "I can come by anyway. Mop your fevered brow?"

Wilson laughed a little and coughed. "Sounds nice. Please do, if you don't mind risking my germs. But... you might not want to. I'm not at home, I'm at House's."

"Ah." Chris digested this information.

"Seems like the best place to be. He is a doctor, after all, even if he doesn't have the greatest bedside manner in the world," Wilson added, with an attempt at levity.

Chris had never seen House's bedside manner, but had difficulty envisaging that House could play the role of ministering angel. He decided firmly that he was not going to miss seeing Wilson for a week just because of House. "I'll come by and say hi."

"That would be nice," Wilson said gratefully, and Chris was pleased. "Stay at my place, if you want, save you driving all the way back after."

* * *

Chris duly arrived in Princeton as usual the next day in the evening, and swung by House's apartment. House opened the door and stood blocking the way.

"He's ill," House said flatly, no greeting. "And asleep."

"I know he's ill," Chris said shortly. "Flu, right? I'll take the risk."

House prevaricated. "Well, it looks like flu now, but who knows what deadly disease it might turn into."

Chris's patience was thin. "House, get the fuck out of the way and let me see my _boyfriend_."

It was the word _boyfriend_ that did it; House flinched visibly and stood aside. Chris stalked through and towards the bedroom. He'd visited House's place a couple of times and knew the layout. He knew that there was only one bedroom, damnit. He didn't suppose House was sleeping on the couch just because there was a sick Wilson in his bed, either.

Wilson was asleep, huddled under blankets. He looked terribly pale, except for a bright blotchy spot of color punctuating each cheek. Chris sat down beside the bed and reached out gently to stroke Wilson's head; it felt hot under his hand. Wilson didn't stir.

Chris sat there for a while, not wanting to move, not wanting to disturb Wilson. He heard House moving around elsewhere in the apartment.

Eventually Wilson stirred, then sighed and opened his eyes.

Chris looked down at him with affection. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty."

"Huh. I feel like crap." Wilson groaned.

"You're so pretty when you're sick."

Wilson let out a small snort of laughter, stopped short by a cough. "Liar." He stretched. "God, I just ache all over."

"Don't move," Chris said quickly. "I'm just dropping by. Wanted to see how you are."

Wilson smiled, and the sight was so sweet it tugged at Chris's heart. "It's good to see you."

"House looking after you OK?" Chris couldn't help but ask.

"Yeah. Don't be misled, he just has a badass reputation to uphold." Wilson yawned.

They chatted for a few more minutes, then Chris decided he shouldn't disturb Wilson's sleep any longer. They said goodbye, and exchanged a long kiss, broken only when Wilson had to cough.

Chris was on his way towards the front door when House called through from the kitchen, "Want a coffee?"

Chris stopped and regarded House with suspicion. There was no way House was offering coffee out of friendliness or the goodness of his heart. He wanted something, presumably a conversation. Chris couldn't think that House would want to talk about anything he would, but curiosity and the smell of the coffee got the better of him.

House handed him a mug. Chris sat down at the kitchen table, and took a sip. It was damn good coffee. Trust House to have a taste for decent coffee.

House was standing leaning against the kitchen counter. Chris looked at him, waiting. After a minute House said, apropos of nothing, "So why're you going out with Wilson? Do you actually give a damn about him? Or is it just for the dynamite sex?"

Chris was flabbergasted by this line of questioning, and couldn't think how to respond except for _fuck off and mind your own business_, and he rather thought House could argue that it was his business.

"Of course I give a damn about him," he eventually said, gruffly, and took the opportunity to ask his own question. "Why do _you_ put up with _me_?"

As he spoke, he realized this was a dangerous question. It implied House had some sort of veto, that he could end Chris's relationship with Wilson right there if he wanted to.

Which was true, Chris knew, but there was no need to have alluded to it.

To his surprise, House answered, and not only that but answered properly and promptly.

"It's in my interest. It's not like he's ever not there when I want him, after all. He's happy when he's with you," House carried on, slightly unexpectedly. "He indulges me when he's happy."

"Figures," Chris said dryly, thinking House was even more self-centered than he'd realized.

"And he's happy with you, because he's in love with you," House added.

Chris stared at him in surprise and disbelief, then shook his head. "Don't mess with me, House."

"I'm not. I've known Wilson for a long time. I know what he's like. You should see the way his face lights up if you call, or when he's getting ready to go meet you. He's going round the hospital just beaming at everyone all the time. He's in love with you." House picked up his cane and brought the tip of it down on the floor for emphasis. "Which means you could hurt him. Which is why I want to know if you actually give a damn about him or not. Or if it's just a way of you getting to have sex with someone who resembles your dead boyfriend."

Suddenly Chris was furious. He put the mug of coffee down on the table and glared at House. "Don't you fucking well dare, House."

House raised his eyebrows. "What, have I hit a nerve? I must be onto something here."

"House—" Chris said in a menacing tone.

"When you're fucking Wilson through the mattress, is it Edward you're seeing?" House said, taunting him now. "When Wilson's giving you a blowjob, is it Edward's head bobbing up and down between your legs? Do you have to stop yourself shouting _Edward, Edward_ when—"

House didn't finish his sentence, as Chris jumped to his feet and punched House hard square on the jaw. Caught off-balance, House fell heavily sideways against the kitchen counter and landed sprawled on the floor.

"Great, hit the helpless cripple," House panted, pulling himself into a sitting position.

Chris stood over him, fist clenched. "Don't you play the cripple card with me, you bastard."

"What was I thinking?" House groped for his cane, lying on the floor next to him. "No need to stop yourself shouting Edward's name. Wilson's an enabler. He'd want to help you. He probably role plays Edward for you every night. Puts on a pair of glasses and side parts his hair and says—"

Chris moved to hit House again, but this time House was ready for him; House wielded the cane sharply and it hit Chris on the shin with a sharp _crack_. Chris shouted in pain and anger, and hopped around the kitchen floor for a few seconds. House grasped the cane more firmly and watched Chris carefully.

_"What the hell is going on?"_

Chris and House both froze and looked at the doorway. Wilson was standing there, leaning on the door frame with one hand. He was wearing boxer shorts and T-shirt. He was deathly pale and there was a sheen of sweat on his face.

Chris and House said in unison, "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Wilson stared round the kitchen. "Then shut up, both of you! I'm trying to sleep!" Suddenly his eyes narrowed and he stared at House. "House, are you OK?"

"Me? I'm fine! You're the one with flu!" House shouted. "Get the fuck back to bed! I'm a doctor, that's an order!"

Wilson looked momentarily bewildered by the force of House's onslaught, then said, "All right. I'm going. Keep the noise down."

He looked at Chris, and Chris saw a mute appeal on Wilson's face; he wasn't sure what it meant. Then Wilson left, heading back towards the bedroom.

Chris looked at House, and abruptly realized what Wilson had meant by his question, and that look. House had jarred his leg when he'd fallen, and he couldn't actually get up on his own right now.

Given the choice, Chris would have happily walked out and left House sitting there. Leave the heartless bastard on the floor, let him suffer for a bit, he fucking well deserved it after what he'd said. But he knew Wilson had silently asked him to help House. And if he left now, then Wilson would surely just end up getting out of his sickbed and helping House himself.

Chris gritted his teeth, and wordlessly held out a hand to House. For a few seconds Chris thought House was going to refuse his hand, in which case he really might have jabbed a finger through House's eye, but then House reached out and took it. They both paused for a second, and it felt uncannily to Chris as if a truce had been called.

Then Chris hauled House to his feet. House leaned heavily against the counter. Apparently he'd showed enough weakness for one day and wasn't about to sit down now while Chris was there. Chris nearly said _You OK?_ but realized he would only get his head bitten off for asking. House reached for his little orange pill bottle, sitting on the counter, and swallowed two pills together.

"I'll be off then," Chris said shortly. "I'll be staying at Wilson's tonight if you want to get hold of me, then I'll be heading home tomorrow."

"OK," House said, unusually subdued.

Chris thought of how hot Wilson's head had felt underneath his hand and wanted some reassurance. "He'll be alright, right?"

"Of course he will." House picked up his mug of coffee again, the momentary vulnerability fast fading away. "The hard part will be stopping him going to work tomorrow. Don't worry, I'll tie him to the bed if I have to."

A vision of this floated up before Chris's eyes, and he turned and left quickly.


	6. Sex Parties

A few months after Wilson had come into his life, Chris was in the private bar reading a magazine and sipping whisky, when a familiar voice hailed him from across the room. "Chris!"

It was Linus, an old and dear friend of his, who he hadn't seen for the last six months. Chris rose to his feet and went to greet him.

"Linus!" They clapped each other on the back and shook hands warmly. Chris led Linus over to the bar and waved at the bartender.

"So, you're back. You're looking well," Chris said truthfully. Linus was a portly man, exacerbated by his healthy appetite for expensive food and drink and disdain for exercise. He'd slimmed down a bit since Chris had last seen him, although he still filled out his Hawiian shirt generously. "Staying long this time?"

"A few months. Then I'm off again, long trip to North Africa being planned right now, Morocco, Tunisia. You should come with me for a bit next time, Chris; we'd have a grand fucking time." Linus grinned; he had a wicked grin. He also had a habit of being unsubtle. "The operative word being _fucking_."

Chris grinned back. "Cheers, Linus, but haven't you heard? I'm going out with someone at the moment."

"No! And who is the lucky guy?" Linus picked up the premium export bitter that the barman had brought Linus without needing to ask what he wanted. "And is he actually over twenty-one?"

"Not only that, but he looks over twenty-one. His name's James Wilson. He's a doctor."

"Not your typical casting couch fodder, then. A doctor, eh? You have moved up in the world. I'm very proud." Linus drank half his beer in one gulp. "When do I get to meet him?"

Chris looked around the bar. "He's downstairs watching the game on the big screen. He'll be up in a minute for half time."

"A doctor. Well well." Linus gulped the other half of his beer. "What sort of doctor? Not a shrink, is he?"

"No, he's an oncologist. He works in a hospital up at Princeton."

"Princeton?" Linus raised an eyebrow. "That's a bit of a way, isn't it?"

"He comes down here at weekends." Chris hesitated. "He's got... ties up there."

"Oh God, he's not married, is he?" Linus's face darkened and he laid a hand on Chris's arm. His tone was light and scolding as he went on, "We're not fucking going through all that again, are we? What did I say to you? No more married men!"

Linus knew him too well. Chris laughed. "No, he's not married. Though he used to be. Twice, actually." He saw the incredulous expression on Linus's face and went on hastily. "But there is another man in his life. I've kind of got him on a timeshare basis."

"How the hell do you pick them, Chris, honestly!" Linus shook his head. "So what's the deal?"

_Wish I knew,_ Chris thought wryly. He was saved an immediate reply as Wilson appeared in the bar doorway, to get a drink away from the hordes downstairs. Chris waved at him to come over.

Linus took one look at Wilson and said to Chris in a sorrowful undertone, "And here I was thinking you've moved on, when actually you've moved back two years."

Chris rolled his eyes. "Gimme a break. Yes, he looks like Edward. No, that's not all there is to it. Anyway, I would have thought you'd approve."

"Oh, I do, I do." Linus's eyes drifted over Wilson, who was wearing black jeans that clung to his ass and a crisp white T-shirt. "Can never get enough of the pretty. Where on earth did you find him? Are there more where he came from?"

Chris elbowed Linus in the ribs as Wilson came up to them, smiling.

"Wilson," Chris reached out and pulled Wilson gently towards him, hooking a finger in one of Wilson's belt loops. Wilson moved up to him and kissed him on the mouth. Chris let his tongue flicker briefly across Wilson's lips, relishing the sensation; Wilson closed his mouth, sucking briefly on the tip of Chris's tongue before they moved apart.

"Wilson, this is Linus," Chris said briskly, glancing sideways at Linus, who had been watching with interest. "He's an old friend of mine. Linus, this is James Wilson."

"Delighted to meet you, dear boy," Linus said solemnly, and shook Wilson's hand.

"Pleased to meet you too," Wilson said with equal solemnity. He looked at Linus with curiousity. Linus was an interesting looking guy, if only for his flamboyant dress sense. He had a habit of wearing loud patterned shirts and brightly colored suspenders.

"Linus lives in a house just up the shore from me, but he travels a lot, on business," Chris explained.

"Indeed I do, but I am _very_ keen to get to know you better while I'm here, James Wilson," Linus interjected. "I'm having a party next weekend. Saturday night. I hope you'll both come? In fact I insist."

"Of course," Wilson said, smiling, polite. "Hey, I have to go, the game's about to re-start. But I'll look forward to your party next week." He waved at Chris, and left, heading downstairs.

Chris and Linus leaned on the bar and watched him go.

"You bastard," Chris said conversationally.

"You gotta let the other kids play with your toys," Linus said, deadpan.

* * *

Later that evening, Chris was in his office when Wilson came and joined him. Chris was at his desk; Wilson came and perched next to him. Chris curled a hand around Wilson's head, running his fingers lovingly over Wilson's nose and mouth.

"Wilson," Chris said delicately, "I don't think you know what kind of parties Linus throws."

"What?" Wilson asked, and looked so innocent that Chris nearly said something like _fancy dress parties_ just for fun, but then decided he needed to be up-front.

"The kind of parties where people have sex with other people," Chris explained

Wilson's mouth formed a small round _O_ of surprise. "Really? What, like—an orgy?"

"Uh, yes." Chris traced a finger round Wilson's chin. "We don't have to go. Unless you want to. Linus sure wants you to, but you don't have to take any notice of him."

"Mmm," Wilson said dubiously. He pulled back a little to look Chris in the eye, and asked directly, "Are you fucking Linus?"

Chris grinned broadly. "Me and Linus? We tried having sex once, years ago, and it was such an unmitigated fucking disaster we realized we were better off being just friends."

Wilson couldn't help but grin back.

Chris hesitated, then went on, "Linus and _Edward_, on the other hand... now they did like to fuck."

Wilson blinked and asked, "What, at the same time as... Edward was with you?"

Chris nodded. "It was always really fucking hot to watch."

Wilson chewed on his lower lip and looked thoughtful.

"We don't have to go to this party," Chris said firmly.

"No," said Wilson, sounding offhand. "We'll go."

* * *

Chris thought it was fifty-fifty whether Wilson would go to the party or not. He prepared himself the following weekend for a possible excuse why Wilson might not be able to come down: work, illness, car trouble, House needing him for some trifling reason (House's reasons always seemed trifling to Chris, even though rationally he knew they weren't. Usually). It wouldn't have been unusual; there was usually at least one weekend a month where Wilson either couldn't make it at all, or arrived very late or left early. But no—this weekend Wilson was down very promptly on Saturday afternoon, and apparently still happy to go to the party. Chris made a point of asking at least twice.

So there they were; strolling around Linus's large and beautiful seafront house, party in full swing. Drink and drugs and men were in plentiful supply.

Wilson stuck close to Chris's side at first, and at one point asked, "Do Linus's parties ever get raided by the police?"

Chris looked at Wilson in amusement. He knew that Wilson didn't want his two lives to meet, which was why Wilson hadn't allowed Chris back to visit Princeton Plainsboro since the day they'd met. There was a powerful streak of conformity in Wilson which Chris didn't like (it had been the same with Edward, and this had led to untold problems), but didn't often see.

"No. And you know why?" Chris pointed down the hallway at a fat man who was talking to a group of younger men. "That's the local police chief. He's always at these things. Linus is well connected, you know."

After that Wilson relaxed and became confident enough to wander off by himself for a bit.

Chris was pleasantly drunk and slightly stoned when he bumped into Linus a while later. Linus's arm was draped around a dark haired young man who Chris had never seen before.

"Chris, so glad you could make it." Linus thumped Chris on the shoulder. "Now where's your beautiful boy? The doctor? Do you ever play doctor with him, by the way? I can just see him in nothing but a white coat."

"He's around," Chris assured him. "He's new to all this, be gentle with him."

"New? How can he be, when you have him on a timeshare basis?" Linus affected a sigh.

"Well, it's a timeshare, its not like we're ever with him at the same time," Chris said, dry as dust.

"We were off to my bedroom," Linus announced, and looked at the guy he was with. "Fancy an audience, my dear?"

The guy was agreeable. Chris started to follow them towards to the bedroom, but was distracted by finding Wilson on the way. He told Wilson where he was going, with an enquiring quirk of an eyebrow; Wilson hesitated, then followed too.

They walked into Linus's bedroom, where Linus was administering a blow job to the dark haired guy on Linus's enormous bed. They sat on the sidelines in a large armchair and watched, Chris hugging Wilson close to him, feeling his own arousal grow and aware that Wilson was in a similar state.

Eventually the guy groaned and came in Linus's mouth; Linus spat it out expertly and looked round at Chris.

Linus was delighted to see Wilson there too, and went straight for the jugular.

"Wilson, darling, just the person I wanted to see. I've been simply _dying_ to fuck you since I met you. Any chance of it?"

Wilson looked at Chris, who shrugged almost imperceptibly; _your call._

Wilson then turned towards Linus, and Chris felt his blood start to pump with a fury; dear God, Wilson was going for it! Linus was undoing his pants with an expression like he'd just died and gone to heaven. Wilson stripped rapidly and joined him on the bed, and Chris's own erection surged mightily at the sight of Wilson, naked, getting on his hands and knees in front of Linus. Linus rolled on a condom and slicked Wilson's ass briskly with lube, then started to fuck him without further ceremony. Wilson gasped a bit, but took him, and started to move with him.

Chris, now with his own dick out, suddenly found a mouth on it—the dark haired guy who had been with Linus, getting in on the action. Chris sat back and let the guy suck him, while not taking his eyes off Wilson being thoroughly fucked by Linus. Geez, he would sleep well tonight. Linus slowed, driving deeper and more deliberately into Wilson with each thrust until Chris wanted to shout, _come, you fucker_!—until with a final heave, he did.

As Linus pulled out of Wilson and collapsed panting on the bed, Chris put a hand out to stop the guy who was giving him a blow job, saying a breathless, "Thanks," then joined the party on the bed. Wilson rolled over and looked up at Chris with wide, shining eyes, and said, breathless, "Fuck me, Chris, _please_—_"_

Chris needed no further invite. He rolled on his own condom and thrust up inside Wilson; feeling him slick and open from where Linus had just been before him. Wilson gasped and panted, and Chris took Wilson's own engorged and swollen cock in his fist and brought him off with a single wrist movement. As Wilson cried out and came across his stomach, Chris pushed on to his own swift climax, spurred on by the two other sets of eyes on him.

It was a damn good party.


	7. Impotence

For all Chris liked Wilson being with other men at the club and at Linus's parties, Chris had also found he really didn't like thinking about Wilson being with House. He wasn't even sure he could explain why. After all, Chris completely accepted that House was to Wilson what Edward had been to him; _the_ one, with a strong bond that had stood up to the various tests of time. But that didn't mean he wanted to think about it too much.

He had it brutally brought home to him by accident one day.

He hadn't been going to drop by Princeton this week, as Wilson had warned him that House was having his apartment redecorated ("He finally realized his shabby chic had lost its chic. Um, not that he'd explain it like that,") and was consequently staying with Wilson for a week while the decorators toiled and the paint dried. But Chris had left Rutgers very late in the day for various reasons, turned his motorcycle towards Princeton out of sheer force of habit, and found himself halfway there before he remembered he wasn't supposed to be going there. Later he wondered why he hadn't thought to call ahead and warn Wilson that he was coming to visit after all; but he hadn't. He'd just decided wearily that as he was now on his way, he might as well go see Wilson after all.

So it was all his own stupid fault when the inevitable happened.

He'd had a key to Wilson's apartment for some time now, and didn't bother to knock. He walked in the door, and immediately heard a sexual moan from the direction of the bedroom. He walked in the bedroom, and stopped. House and Wilson were in bed together, naked, fucking. House was on his back, Wilson perched above, facing House, gripping the headboard. House had his cock a long way up Wilson's ass, and he was gripping and rolling Wilson's own cock backwards and forwards with one long bony hand.

Yet somehow Chris barely noticed any of that initially. He could see House's bad leg, stretched out to one side. He'd never seen it before. An enormous ugly black scar arched up his thigh, showing up vividly against the white bed sheets. _Fucking hell._ Chris simply hadn't thought before about what House's crippled leg might look like, might feel like. He'd just thought, _so he limps, like I did that time I broke my ankle_... Now Chris realized this was a whole different ball game. How the hell could House even walk with a leg like that? How could he think about anything, hold down a job, manage to have sex even, with a leg like that?

That House was managing the last of these was indubitable. Chris's attention moved away from House's leg and towards House and Wilson, panting, thrusting, eyes closed and concentrating so hard on each other that they hadn't heard him come in. Suddenly Chris didn't want to be seen; he sank slowly down on his heels and sat back against the wall, not hidden but low down enough so they were unlikely to spot him if they opened their eyes.

Why didn't he want to be seen? Why didn't he want to join in, or watch? He had an erection, sure, that was virtually an automatic reaction to seeing other people have sex... but he didn't actually feel turned on by it. Why not? Hell, he'd seen Wilson in a similar position with Linus just last week and could barely wait for Linus to pull out so he could get in there. But that had been different... just sex, just physical attraction being acted on. This... was _his_ Wilson emotionally connected to someone else. Which of course he knew, he'd always known, but hadn't actually seen demonstrated like this before, with sweat and shuddering and small moans of _"House, God yes, House,_" as a backdrop.

Suddenly a wholly new emotion struck Chris sharply round the face, did a twirl, and came back and punched him in the stomach, leaving him gasping. He was _jealous_.

The jealousy rose up in his gut like bile and clogged up his veins and arteries until he thought there was no blood flow left. He watched, unable to look away, and saw House come, right up inside Wilson, and then Wilson come all over House's chest. He saw it all through a haze; he heard House's sharp orgasmic cry only faintly, as if underwater.

Wilson collapsed on the bed next to House, face down, and lay still. Chris felt nausea rising, and decided he had to get out of here, fast. He pulled himself across the floor and out of the door. Once out, he scrambled to his feet and glanced back briefly, only to see a beady blue eye looking back at him. House had seen him. _Goddamnit._ Not Wilson, though; actually, it looked like Wilson had clean passed out immediately after his climax.

Chris stumbled to the bathroom and retched. It was mostly just bile; he hadn't had anything to eat for hours. Perhaps that was part of the problem. He stopped after a minute, and sank back to sit on the bathroom floor, feeling numb and weak.

A short while later, he heard a sound and looked up through bleary eyes to see House standing leaning against the doorway. House was now clad now in a bath robe which covered his leg. He looked contemplative. Chris mentally groaned. Great, just what he needed right now.

"I thought you enjoyed watching Wilson have sex with other men," House remarked.

Chris choked on nothing more than his own saliva and had a coughing fit.

House's jaw dropped and he said incredulously, "You mean that's _true_?"

"Fuck off." Chris found his hands were trembling. He realized what he wanted more than anything right now was a cigarette. Chris had spent his entire life in various stages of giving up smoking, assisted for long periods by the fact that Edward hated it, although he had virtually mainlined nicotine in the period after Edward's death. As Wilson hated smoking too (the whole cancer thing, of course), he'd managed to give up again recently, and consequently knew he didn't have any cigarettes on him. He also knew that House was an occasional smoker.

"House," Chris said, desperation forcing him to ask a favor. "Have you got a cigarette, by any chance?"

"No." House looked down at Chris's hands. Suddenly he brightened. "I know what Wilson's got hidden in his briefcase, though. Hold on."

House vanished, and re-appeared a moment later with his pill bottle, a cheap plastic lighter and a neatly rolled joint.

"Medicinal. For his patients," House explained, dropping both the lighter and the joint into Chris's lap. House then leaned against the wall and slithered down it to sit down on the floor opposite Chris. He opened his pill bottle, shook out a couple of pills, and swallowed them.

Chris lit the joint, and inhaled gratefully. A couple of drags later, he felt much calmer. House reached out a hand and snapped his fingers together impatiently; Chris handed it to him and watched House take a drag. Chris decided if he stopped to think about how surreal it was to be sitting on Wilson's bathroom floor sharing a joint with House, his brain might explode.

A short while later Chris felt much better and was wondering what to do, when House unexpectedly spoke.

"The other men thing," he said, waving the joint in the air. "I was just guessing. Based on what happened ten years ago. And the fact that anyone who runs a string of gay bars and clubs must be at least a bit of a pervert."

House's tone was droll rather than insulting, so Chris took it in the same spirit and shrugged.

"Wilson doesn't actually talk to me about your sex life," House added, and handed the joint back to Chris.

"No sweat." Chris replied, and took another drag. "He doesn't talk to me about yours either." He aimed for ironic. "I'm guessing you're fucking."

House shrugged back, and said, "Not as often as you might think."

_Really._ Chris's eye fell on House's pill bottle, now sitting on the floor next to House. Chris had googled Vicodin, read that it decreased the sex drive. And add to that constant chronic pain—now he'd seen House's leg, Chris had started to realized just how bad that pain might be. Perhaps this was why House's girlfriend had upped and left him. Perhaps this was why Wilson was with himself, albeit on the timeshare basis.

House added, "He wants to have his cake and eat it."

Chris smiled wryly. "And he seems to be managing that just fine, don't you think?" He handed the remainder of the joint back to House, stood up, and said, "I'm going home."

"It's the middle of the night," House protested.

"Roads'll be clear. I'll be back in no time." Chris stretched his arms above his head. "Tell Wilson I was here, and I'll call him tomorrow."

House drew deeply on the joint, and said, "He'll think I drove you away."

Chris couldn't help but laugh, and as he walked out of the bathroom he said over his shoulder, "House, you _are_ driving me away."


	8. Finding a Physician

Chris was working his way through a bunch of paperwork when his phone rang. He glanced at the number; it was an internal call, from the security guard who manned the CCTV screens. He picked up.

"Hello?"

"Chris," the guard said, voice panicked. "Just picked up something on the screen about ten minutes ago, downstairs bar. I was watching Wilson—he was giving a cold shoulder to this guy standing next to him—and I think I saw the guy drop something in his drink. I wasn't sure—I really wasn't sure—so I went to rewind. And I looked away from the live screen while I was checking, and now they've both gone—"

_"Fuck!"_ Chris rose to his feet. "Radio the guys on the door, I'll be right down—" He threw the receiver down and fled out of the room, stopping only to pop the lock shut on his office door.

Chris had never instructed them to, but all the staff in the club kept an eye out for Wilson. Bartenders, bouncers, the chefs in the kitchen, the hat-check girls at the cloakroom. They all wanted to please the man who authorized their paychecks, of course, but they all liked Wilson too. He was nice and kind and remembered all their names. Chris knew all the CCTV guys would keep a camera on him if they had nothing better to look out for.

He got to the downstairs bar, and found Bob, his manager, who would have picked up on the radio message, already striding away from the bar. He saw Chris and pointed towards the door.

"The bar staff saw him try and pick up Wilson, nobody saw them go but they must've gone outside—Lonny and Biff just went out after them—"

"Thanks." Chris raced outside towards the car park. The car park was full, and he stopped to look round. Some fifty feet away he saw Lonny and Biff, his two doormen, dragging a man out of the driver's side of a parked car, one on each arm. He ran towards the car.

Relief and fury surged through Chris at the sight of Wilson in the passenger seat. His head was lolling alarmingly to one side. As Lonny and Biff clearly had the perpetrator under control (Lonny had just 'accidentally' driven a fist into his stomach and knocked all the wind out of him), Chris strode round to open the passenger door.

Chris put a hand on each side of Wilson's face, cradling his cheeks, and said urgently, "Wilson. Wilson. Look at me. It's Chris. Honey. Look at me. I love you."

Wilson's eyes swiveled in their sockets and focused briefly at the mention of Chris's name. He said quite distinctly, _"Chris,"_ then went vacant again. Chris leaned Wilson's head back gently against the car seat, and walked around the side of the car. The perp was doubled over, panting. Lonny and Biff stood either side, each with a firm grip on the man's shoulder. By this time Bob and another guy, who Chris recognized as his CCTV camera security guard, had joined the party.

Lonny and Biff jerked the man up straight as Chris approached. Chris looked at him just long enough to note what he looked like—medium height, dark hair, unremarkable features—before pulling back his fist and socking him full in the face. The man cried out, blood spurting from his nose, and he fell to the ground, Lonny and Biff letting him fall awkwardly on one side.

Chris crouched down next to the man and said with barely controlled rage, "You picked the wrong victim here, you sick fucker. I own this club and that's my boyfriend you've drugged. What did you put in his drink?" When the man didn't immediately answer, Chris grabbed his arm, shook it, and shouted, "WHAT?"

"Just a couple of roofies," the man mumbled, his voice thick with blood and fear.

"Rohypnol?" Chris demanded.

"Yeah. He'll... he'll be fine in the morning."

Chris breathed hard. "He better damn well be, or you are so dead." He reached into the man's inside jacket pocket and found his wallet. He extracted a driver's license and handed it to the security guard. "Go stick this on the photocopier."

The guard vanished on his errand.

Chris addressed the man on the ground. "We've got you caught in the act on CCTV, you sicko, and now we know who you are. I own half the gay bars and clubs round here, and I know everyone who owns the other half. I will make sure they are all faxed your details first thing tomorrow, and you'll find yourself barred from every establishment on the Jersey coast."

Chris stood up and drove his foot viciously into the man's groin. Ignoring the agonized yelp of pain, he looked at Lonny and Biff, and said, "Wait 'til he gets his driver's license back, then get him the hell off my turf. You might want to kick the shit out of him in the meantime." Then he looked at Bob. "Give me a hand."

Together Chris and Bob got Wilson out of the car and walking back towards the club. Wilson was conscious, even mumbling a few nonsense words, but he was very unsteady on his feet, and didn't seem to be aware of what was happening around him.

"Your office?" Bob asked as they approached the entrance.

Chris didn't want to try and get Wilson up the stairs. "Staff room. Go make sure its empty."

The staff room was a small sparsely furnished and under-used room out back on the ground floor. By the time Chris arrived with Wilson, Bob had herded out any occupants, and Chris sat Wilson down on an overstuffed couch with some relief. He sat down next to Wilson and tried to talk to him again.

"Wilson, it's me, Chris. Can you hear me? Are you OK?"

"Chris," Wilson muttered, then his head lolled on one side again and he flopped backwards on the couch. Chris laid him back gently, then ground his teeth with worry and frustration. He didn't know anything about the possible effects of Rohypnol. He didn't know how long this would last. He didn't know if this reaction was to be expected. He needed someone who knew... he needed a doctor.

He needed a _doctor._

Chris reached for Wilson's hip, where his cell phone was hooked on his belt. He flipped it open, took a deep breath, and hit speed dial #2. House at home.

"_You haven't reached Dr. Gregory House, because he's not here_," House's answer phone message rasped. "_I wouldn't bother leaving a message if I were you_." BEEP.

"House, it's Chris. Pick up," Chris said tersely, and waited.

Five seconds later, House picked up. "Chris. It's the middle of the night. This had better be good." He sounded wide awake and his tone was aggressive, obviously hiding concern. Chris knew House wouldn't have picked up otherwise.

"House, something's happened to Wilson." Chris rested his head in his hands; how to explain? House was gonna love this. "A guy in the club put Rohypnol in his drink. We dealt with the guy, but Wilson's—it's like he's half asleep. I don't know what to do, should I just let him rest and sleep it off?"

There was a short pause, then House said incredulously, "You're telling me someone dosed Wilson with a date rape drug _in_—_your_—_club?_ What the hell sort of place are you running?"

"Save it, House," Chris said angrily. "What should I do with Wilson?"

"You should stop wasting time talking to me and dial 911!" House shouted.

"Yeah, because the Head of Oncology at Princeton Plainsboro hospital is really going to want the world to know he got drugged at his boyfriend's club!" Chris shouted back.

There was another pause, then House said gruffly, "Tell me more. Is he talking? Is he recognizing you?"

House rattled off a series of questions about Wilson's eyes, his voice, his pulse, his breathing. Chris answered as best he could.

"He sounds OK," House said eventually, "but keep a close eye on him. If anything changes, get him to an ER and to hell with the consequences. I'll be with you in an hour and a half. You still live at the same place?"

"Yeah. You're coming down?" Chris wasn't surprised.

"Yeah." House hesitated. "It's just the Rohypnol that's the matter with him? The guy who drugged him," House stumbled awkwardly over the words, "he didn't manage—to _do_ anything—while—"

"No. God, no." Chris was momentarily awash with guilt for not having made that clear. "The fucker didn't have a chance. We got him as he was putting Wilson into his car."

_He was putting Wilson into his car._ The possible consequences of that hadn't really struck Chris until that moment. Suddenly it hit him hard in the stomach. Chris looked down at Wilson, slumped on the couch, and felt a lump form in his throat. If that fucker had managed to drive away—

The sentence hung in the air; House didn't reply, then hung up.

Chris enlisted Bob again to help get Wilson out to his own car. Then Chris drove Wilson back to his house, settled him on the sofa, as that was easier than trying to get him to the bedroom, and sat down to wait for House.

* * *

House arrived in what was very possibly a new record time, although as it was now two AM the roads would have been clear. He strode in, cast a withering look at Chris, and went straight over to Wilson. Chris watched dully as House checked Wilson over. He watched House's hands move deftly over Wilson's skin, lifting eyelids, feeling wrists. The professional doctor at work, yet Chris could see House was clinging to this role to mask and control worry and near panic.

Sometimes, in his darker moments, Chris told himself that House didn't give a damn about Wilson. He didn't see the two of them together very often, but he knew House made outrageous calls on Wilson's time and emotions. Wilson sometimes laughingly told him about House cadging meals and borrowing large sums of money, and Chris really didn't know why Wilson put up with it. Nobody who treated Wilson as badly as House sometimes did could possibly care about him.

But watching House with Wilson now, he knew this was wrong. House gave himself away with the odd twitch of an eyelash, the momentary pursing of lips, the feather-lightness of his touch. Chris had seen it before, in short moments when he'd seen House and Wilson together; in brief, fleeting moments before House noticed he was there. He saw it in the warm flash of a blue eye, in shoulders bumping together as they walked in unison, in the delicate theft of an olive from a slice of pizza.

Sometimes, in his very darkest moments, Chris knew that House and Wilson were bonded so deeply, and so emotionally co-dependent, that this would eventually force him away. Other people and other relationships might come between House and Wilson, but these would all be as passing fancies, no matter how many months and years they went on for. This was one of those moments.

"I would take him home right now," House said presently, "but he's nicely settled, so it's probably best he finishes sleeping it off here first. He can stay here until the morning, then I'll take him home."

Chris didn't dare suggest anything else. House settled himself in an armchair, propping his cane carefully up against the arm, obviously not about to budge until Wilson woke up. He then fixed Chris with a steely glare. "Tell me everything."

Chris related what had happened. House listened with indignation and fury snapping in his blue eyes.

"So we could have this sicko arrested, right?" House said when Chris had finished. "You have his details from his drivers license and you have him popping the pills on CCTV."

"We could," Chris acknowledged. "But it's not something I wanted to rush to do. Yes, we could have him arrested, could get a sympathetic police ear even." He was thinking about Linus's friend the police chief. "But in the end, the guy didn't actually manage to do anything except dope him, thank God. Also the press would probably pick up on it, and Wilson would want to avoid that if at all possible."

"The press?" House said, distastefully.

"Date rape case in gay nightclub. Tabloid journalist's wet dream." Chris hadn't run his clubs and bars for more than ten years without running into similar scandals, though none had involved him so intimately. He knew he was right, and he knew House knew he was right, but he hammered it home. "I think you'd find that men in clubs like mine rate pretty low in the sympathy stakes in terms of press coverage, even if they've been drugged. You might even find it implied that his lifestyle meant he was asking for it."

"For fuck's sake." House was trembling with rage. "This is all your fault."

"The hell it is," Chris returned with indignation. "Everything he's done with me Wilson's gone into with his eyes wide open. Sick fuckers like this one have nothing to do with it, and they can pop up anywhere."

House was silent for a moment, then said, "I hope you beat the crap out of him."

Chris merely nodded.

They sat looking at each other for a while. After a bit Chris started to fall asleep—it had been a long and stressful day. As he drifted off, he heard House say, "I want the details from his driving license."

Chris duly supplied these to House at a later date. He had no idea what revenge House wreaked, but was sure House did something, and was sure it was deserved.

Apart from a splitting headache, Wilson was none the worst for his experience afterwards, which was a great relief all round. He remembered nothing of the evening at all, which Chris was also relieved about, although it perturbed Wilson. The staff at the club took the attack on Wilson as a collective personal insult, and the close eye they kept on him from that day on was such that Chris never worried about such a thing happening again.


	9. Couples

"I'll be spending Christmas at House's," Wilson said diffidently. "Give him the chance to eat my turkey, y'know. But I thought I'd come up here for New Year, if that's OK?"

"Sure," Chris said gruffly. "I'll have Christmas dinner at one of my restaurants, Linus'll probably join me. You don't have to go visit family, then?"

"I'll be doing that too, but before Christmas, for Hanukkah, just for a couple days," Wilson explained. Chris was slightly surprised, Wilson had to be one of the least observant Jews he'd ever met, but Chris supposed one had to please the parents. Chris's own parents had died many years ago, but he remembered attending midnight Mass with his mother for years after he would have otherwise chosen not to go.

"House will do anything to get out of going to _his_ family for Christmas," Wilson added. "I went with him a couple of times, years ago, and it was always hell."

Chris spent some time wondering what House's parents must be like, to have spawned someone like House.

* * *

Christmas had been very difficult for Chris for the last two years without Edward, and he found this year was the same.

On Christmas Day, he went to visit Edward's tree. Chris had had the tree, a small sapling, planted after Edward's death. It had a little '_In Memory of..._ ' plaque and everything, and as far as Chris was concerned the tree was Edward's only memorial.

There was also a more conventional gravestone to him in the nearby cemetery, but this meant nothing to Chris. He'd gone to visit it once, a few weeks after Edward had died, and been almost sick when he'd seen the huge gaudy floral decoration that had been put there by Edward's wife. She had always refused to divorce Edward, insistent that he was just going through a phase, denying that their marriage was over even though they hadn't lived together for years at a time. Including a full six years before Edward's death. She'd thrown all the blame for Edward dying onto Chris (like Chris needed any more guilt about it than he had already). And she had been out in force playing the loud grieving widow and making a tearful scene at Edward's funeral. This was something else that made Chris sick when he thought about it.

She hadn't been able to stop Chris walking away with the urn of ashes at the end, though; Chris and Edward had had the foresight to hedge themselves in with as much legal protection as they could in the circumstances. Chris taken the ashes along when planting the tree. He'd dug the hole, then Linus had held the trunk steady, while Chris sprinkled the ashes in with the roots and piled up earth all around.

Chris had spent hours at a time sitting under the tree in the year after Edward's death, chain smoking and hoping Edward would forgive him for it. And other things.

He didn't visit so often now, but this Christmas Day he wrapped up against the cold and sat there for quite some time, until he could hardly feel his fingers and toes. Eventually he got up, stamped around a bit to warm up, got back on his motorcycle and drove to his beach side steakhouse restaurant to meet Linus for dinner.

He was late, and found Linus sitting comfortably at the best table overlooking the grey sea, with a half-empty bottle of red wine on the table.

"Hey, Linus," Chris said, dropping into a seat.

"Merry Christmas, Chris," Linus intoned. He looked at Chris, who was blowing on his fingers to keep warm, and frowned. "You're frozen. You've been out at the tree, haven't you?"

Chris nodded curtly.

Linus reached across and poured Chris a glass of wine. "Chris, I know I've said this before..."

"So don't say it again," Chris interrupted.

"... but you have to move on! It's been well over two years now. And, I hate to say it..."

"So don't!" Chris picked up the glass, agitated.

"... but you'll never get over Edward while Wilson is around," Linus ended firmly. "I know you love him—" Chris jerked convulsively in his chair—"and God knows so do I, he's such a darling, but I swear it's like having Edward's ghost drifting alongside you sometimes."

"Linus, I so don't want to talk about this right now." _Or ever_. Chris gulped red wine.

"Where's the pretty boy anyway?" Linus asked. "With the other timeshare holder?"

"Yeah." Chris considered this miserably for a few seconds, then drained the rest of his glass. "I get him for New Year. Are you having one of your open house nights?"

"Yeah." Linus brightened up. "Are you coming? I thought you'd be at your club."

"We'll be there at midnight, but we'll come along to yours afterwards." Chris brightened up too, pleased to have changed the topic of conversation. Linus let the subject of Wilson lie, and they had a very long and very pleasant Christmas dinner.

* * *

Wilson was there as promised for New Year. They kissed at midnight at the club in the middle of the dance floor, merry hordes celebrating and dancing all round them.

They then went on to Linus's place, where Linus had hooked up with a young man with streaky blond hair, hazel eyes and an enviable set of rippling chest muscles. It ended up with Wilson fucking the young man while Linus and Chris watched ("Prettiness overdose," Linus muttered, and Chris agreed wholeheartedly). Wilson sucked Chris off afterwards, while Linus jerked off over the other man's face, and Chris looked back on the night as a very Happy New Year indeed.

The morning after, on New Year's Day, Chris woke to find himself in bed in one of Linus's spare rooms. It was nearly noon. Chris got up slowly and wandered through the house; it was empty except for voices coming distantly from the kitchen. He came down the stairs and recognized Linus and Wilson, having a chat.

He arrived at the bottom of the stairs and was just about to join them, when he heard Linus say, "But enough about me. Tell me about your man in Princeton."

Chris paused on the bottom stair, intrigued to hear what Wilson would say.

Wilson laughed rather awkwardly. "House? Um, he's a difficult person to describe."

"Well, start at the beginning. Where'd you meet? How long have you known each other?" Linus sounded friendly and inquisitive. There were sounds of clinking china, and Chris envisaged them having breakfast. Chris sat on the stairs to listen.

"We met at Columbia, House was a resident, I was a med student," Wilson sounded as if he'd paused to slurp some coffee. "Fifteen, maybe sixteen years ago. We lived in the same shared house for a bit, before, um, I got married and moved out. We've both moved around a bit since then, working in different places, but somehow ended up working at the same hospital in Princeton a few years ago."

Wilson went on to talk a little about House as a diagnostician and about the infarction that had crippled him two years ago. He was clearly uncomfortable talking about House. Still, Chris hoped Linus would press him a bit more, and was dismayed when Wilson reached a natural pause, and ended by saying, "Your turn. Tell me about Chris and Edward. Chris won't talk about Edward, I've tried asking him, he won't."

_No do not fucking tell him about me and Edward_, Chris thought frantically. He nearly got up to interrupt, but hesitated for a fraction of a second too long.

"Well, they were meant to be together," Linus said with a heavy dramatic sigh, the old queen, and now morbid curiosity impelled Chris to listen. "If it hadn't been for that bitch of a wife of Edward's... but the least said about her the better. They were the perfect couple, Chris and Edward. 'Course, Chris still blames himself for Edward's death, probably always will, the idiot, it was an accident, nothing he could have done..."

There was a crunching sound, as if Linus had bitten into a piece of toast. Linus continued, moving into gossip mode, his voice slightly indistinct as he ate. "Chris went completely into his shell afterwards—he was like a monk for about a year, you know. Worked and did nothing else. Then he discovered that having short-term sex with good-looking stupid young men could help him forget. The casting couch saw a lot of action, I can tell you. I thought it was a good sign at first, but it was like drugs, the longer he carried on, the more he needed to feel the hit. It got ridiculous in the end. I had to do something, so I took him away on vacation, we went to Europe—I was going anyway on business, we made a holiday out of it for the first few weeks. I think it helped. Anyway by the time I came back, a couple of months later, he'd had his house redecorated and started this MBA... all good, I thought. I thought he'd moved on..."

Linus's voice trailed away, but his tone indicated _I'm not so sure now_. Chris knew he shouldn't be eavesdropping, and it wasn't like any of Linus's opinions were new to him, but it was interesting nonetheless. He wished he could see Wilson's reaction.

All he got was Wilson's voice, a little diffident, asking, "What sort of person was Edward? I don't know anything about him, except that I look a bit like him. And I'm a bit fed up with people telling me that."

Linus chuckled. "I'm sure you are, honey. Edward... was a bit like you, not just in the way he looked, he had the same kind of, shall we say, endearing nerdiness, that you have—"

"Oh thanks," Wilson said, laughing a little.

"And he was kind, and nice. Soft-hearted, a bit too much so. And he was a great lay, I can tell you."

Chris smiled involuntarily; that was such a Linus thing to say.

"He wasn't practical and organized like you are, though—he was always in a bit of a muddle," Linus continued thoughtfully. "But then he was one of these creative types. Always getting ideas, and bounding off to write them down or drawing them on the back of a napkin. He was an architect, you know."

"I didn't know." Wilson sounded surprised, as if he'd never thought about it. "What sort of architect?"

"He designed houses for people. Not this monstrosity of mine, but he designed Chris's house," Linus explained. "In fact, that was how they met."

"Really," Wilson said with great interest.

And now Chris stopped listening, because it was like a cold hand had gripped his heart inside his chest. He hadn't thought about this for ages, years, perhaps—and suddenly it was vivid in his head.

Standing on the scrubland beside the sea, proud new owner surveying his territory, waiting to meet the architect he'd had recommended to him... Being joined by the slightly late and breathless scruffy young man with spectacles and floppy hair... Walking the area, discussing ideas, Chris hardly able to believe how attractive the other man was... Back a few days later, Edward bounding up with large pieces of paper, breathless this time with enthusiasm, putting the papers down on a large boulder by the sea, talking and pointing through his ideas... Back again, with more ideas and actual designs, sitting close and discussing the detail, breathing increasingly quickly and _their first kiss_, tender, tentative and terribly erotic - broken by Edward blushing and pulling away, muttering he had to get home to his fiancée... Making out in the sand dunes late one evening in the dark, with just the moon illuminating the slope of Edward's shoulders and the outline of his jaw... Consummating their relationship among the timbers of the half-built house, twisting and bucking with sawdust and cement surrounding them...

Chris felt his throat closing up, and he stood up and walked back up the stairs as swiftly and quietly as he could. Upstairs, he threw open a window, stuck his head out, and breathed in fresh air. He didn't cry, but was completely choked up; he stayed there for some fifteen minutes before he was sure he wasn't going to crack.

As his head cleared, he thought miserably, _It's been more than two years. I really should be doing better than this_.

Maybe Linus had a point.

No, he didn't. Chris refused to accept that. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went downstairs to the kitchen. He made a lot of noise on the stairs going down.


	10. Jealousy, Envy, and Possessiveness

It was a Monday; Chris was never in Princeton on a Monday. But a lecture he wanted to go to had been switched at short notice, he called Wilson on the day and arranged to go on to Princeton that evening. They decided to get dinner out, and ended up going to catch a late night movie, which they didn't often do.

They made their way back to Wilson's afterwards, but as they walked in the door, laughing about something in the film, Wilson suddenly stopped and Chris bumped into him. Then Chris saw why. House was there, sitting on Wilson's couch, TV remote in hand.

House looked up, and glowered at Chris. He didn't say anything, but Chris could read the message in his eyes loud and clear; _what the fuck are you doing here? This isn't one of your nights!_

Chris wasn't about to back out and go home, as he'd come all the way to Princeton and it was now past midnight—but House was comfortably ensconced on the couch. It was a genuinely awkward situation. As Chris wondered how best to play this, Wilson sat down next to House and said, "House, what's up?"

Chris belatedly noticed what Wilson had picked up on immediately; House was upset for some reason, and had been before they'd walked in the door. It wasn't obvious—House was always so grouchy anyway, in Chris's experience—but Chris could see now House was sitting more hunched than usual and his expression had a bleakness about it that wasn't usually there.

"Just lost a patient," House said, barely audibly.

Chris sat down on the couch on the other side of Wilson.

Wilson was silent for a moment, then asked, "Did you find out what was wrong with him?"

"Only after the autopsy," House muttered.

A double blow, then, Chris realized. Wilson asked House a few more questions about the patient, and Chris tuned out, as the medical talk really didn't mean anything to him. Chris mused that Wilson wouldn't be turfing House out after an event like that. House might decide to leave himself, but if he didn't, Chris would have to decide whether to stay or go. Chris had just concluded that he would take whatever signal Wilson gave him, when suddenly he was startled from his thoughts.

Wilson had just put a hand on House's shoulder. Before either Chris or House could react, Wilson leaned forward and kissed House gently on the lips. Very slowly, very deliberately.

So _that_ was his signal; Chris was wounded. The long drive back home loomed in front of him. Perhaps he'd try and find a hotel room for the night instead. He felt indignant at Wilson; so blatant, it was unnecessary to do that right in front of him. Just a look would have done it; _Chris, I'm going to be with House tonight_; it had happened before, Wilson could convey such a message with an apologetic twitch of his eyebrows alone—

But then Wilson, still embracing House, put out a hand behind him and rested it on Chris's lap, and suddenly Chris realized this was a completely different kind of signal—a whole new ball game in fact. He sat there for a few seconds, amazed, feeling his erection already forming under Wilson's hand. He saw House's body twitch, and knew that House had seen what Wilson was doing. Then Wilson pulled slightly back from House, and smoothly switched positions, turning to kiss Chris and put his hand on House's crotch instead.

It wasn't like Chris hadn't been in similar situations before. With Wilson, even. But not with Wilson and House, apart from that time ten years ago, and everything, _everything,_was different now. He had no idea what House was making of this. In fact Chris had no idea what to do at all. Fortunately Wilson did.

Wilson pulled away from both the other men, and as they stared at him, he shrugged off his jacket and bent down to untie his shoes. He kicked off his shoes, and socks, then stood up, undoing his shirt cuffs as he did so. He then loosened his tie, tugged it off, and dropped it on the couch. By the time he started to undo his shirt buttons, Chris was already rock hard. Wilson took off his shirt, and Chris watched his back and shoulder blades arch and glint in the dim light of the room. Wilson then walked off towards the bedroom, undoing his belt buckle as he walked; House was a pace behind him.

Chris hesitated for all of two seconds, then got up to follow.

_Pretend it's not House_, was Chris's overriding thought as he walked into the bedroom and found Wilson just removing his boxer shorts, and House sitting on the bed starting to take off his own clothes. _It's just some other guy, someone from the club, or one of Linus's pals, he doesn't mean anything to Wilson except Wilson thinks he's hot-_-Chris, undressing as rapidly as he could, saw that House was looking anywhere in the room except at him, and was sure a similar thought process was going on inside House's head.

All three of them were naked now, and Chris watched as Wilson knelt on the floor and started to blow House. House's eyes closed and his hands went to Wilson's head, his fingers twitching in Wilson's hair, mussing it up. God. Chris remembered vividly one of the first things he had ever said to House, ten years before, when they'd met in the bar: _Have you ever watched him suck another man's cock?... You'd find it the biggest turn-on_. Still such a turn-on; but not as House, _it's not House, it's just a dick, Edward just sucking someone else's dick_—

_Wilson,_ not Edward. Jesus Christ, he must be going mad. Chris took his own cock in his hand, rolling and jerking, watching Wilson's mouth moving over House's cock, nibbling the tip, running his tongue down the length. Chris moved across and sat on the bed a couple of feet from House; House was not going to have all the action here. House resolutely refused to meet his eye. Fine, he didn't want to acknowledge House, either. Wilson gave House's cock one final lick and then moved smoothly across to Chris. Chris gasped and shut his eyes as Wilson took him in, further than Chris knew he was himself capable of doing, how the fuck did Edward—_Wilson_—manage to do that, he had no idea.

Wilson pulled back just when Chris was starting to feel himself close to coming; Chris groaned, and waited to see what Wilson had in mind next. Observers might have thought Wilson was the passive one in their relationship; but Chris knew (and House must know too) that James Wilson knew his mind and was _always_ the one in control, whatever position he happened to be in.

Wilson gestured to House to turn over; House made a small grumbling sound, but did so. Chris averted his eyes from House's bad leg; all the better not to think of him as House. Just some guy Wilson was about to fuck, there was lube now, Wilson rolling on a condom, and fingering first House and then himself (and there was a sight Chris could watch all day). Chris's own turn would come.. Afterwards, presumably...

But then Wilson handed him a condom too, and said one breathless word; "Sandwich?"

_"Jesus fucking Christ almighty,"_ Chris heard House exclaim, and silently echoed. Chris nodded to Wilson, knowing his tongue was hanging out; didn't think he could get any harder without spontaneously combusting. He and House and Wilson had done this when they'd met ten years before, but House had topped that time, and now it was going to be Chris.

Wilson reached around to kiss House on the lips (Chris blotted this image out) then lined himself up, putting his hands on House's hips, and gently eased himself inside. House growled and scrabbled with his hands on the bed sheets. Wilson started to thrust, and House moved with him. Chris watched for a few seconds, Wilson and House, seamless now, with the familiarity that came from years of fucking each other, House groaning, _"Wilson, fucking hell,"_ Wilson murmuring gently, "House..."

Then Chris moved forward, rubbing his own cock, and grasped Wilson by the hips. He took a second to appreciate Wilson's firm ass moving jerkily below, then entered Wilson. Wilson took him easily; Chris thrust such a long way inside that he almost orgasmed immediately. He recovered himself just in time—mustn't finish that quickly, damnit!—and thrust again, filling Wilson, feeling Wilson's body shaking underneath him, and House's body juddering violently beyond that. Aware that Wilson was leaning sideways, away from House's bad leg, Chris tried not to rest too much of his weight on the men underneath him, tried to support himself on his feet, but he felt giddy, all his blood seemed to have gone to his groin; it was too much, it was all _far too much_ and the sex was only part of that. A couple more thrusts and he came with a stifled shout. As if triggering off some sort of chain reaction, he felt Wilson climax, with House only a second or two behind.

Chris practically fell off Wilson afterwards and Wilson moved more slowly away from House. House instantly crawled onto the bed, stretched out and lay flat, panting hard. Wilson struggled up beside him.

Chris could not bring himself to join House and Wilson on the bed. He lay on the floor for a little while, then got up and struggled back into the living room, where he crashed on the couch for a bit and recovered.

All House said to Chris afterwards, in a moment while Wilson was out in the bathroom, was, "We are _never_ doing this again."


	11. Letting Go

It was Chris who suggested they should go away for a few days, and that skiing might be nice at this time of year. Wilson agreed with enthusiasm. They booked at a ski resort not too many hours drive away, and nudged each other over the fact that it would be Valentine's Day that weekend. Then each went off home to find long-disused ski gear. Chris wasn't at all surprised to hear that Wilson hadn't been skiing since he last went with House, pre-infarction. And Chris hadn't gone since Edward had died.

It took Chris a while to find any ski gear at all, and when he finally found some in a battered old box deep inside a cupboard he rarely opened, he found to his dismay that some of it had belonged to Edward. Chris had cleared out every bit of Edward's stuff about a year after his death in a big Linus-induced effort to put things behind him. At least, he thought he had; but their ski stuff had obviously been bundled together and had thus escaped.

Chris started to go through it, determinedly putting Edward's things in one pile and his own in another. He hesitated over gloves; his own were fairly flimsy and not that warm. Edward had had a very decent pair of expensive gloves. Edward's woolly hat too, was a lot newer and in better condition than Chris's was. Chris tried on the hat and gloves, and wondered if it would be too weird to keep them. Eventually he decided it would be a shame to waste them, so he put his own hat and gloves in the discard pile instead.

The ski weekend started well, the resort was very nice. They turned out to be well-matched in terms of levels of skill, so were able to use the same slopes.

During a breather, Chris, conscious of his own ski-wear, complimented Wilson on his very smart gloves.

Wilson looked sheepish, and said, "Actually they're House's. I used to have some, couldn't find them, don't know where they went, so House said to take his. It's not like he's going to be skiing again, after all." Chris stared at Wilson, taken aback by this apparently insensitive remark, and Wilson blushed. "That's what _he_ said."

Only too obviously looking to change the subject, Wilson went on hastily, "Your gloves are very nice too, where'd you get them?"

Chris simply could not bring himself to admit they were Edward's, and muttered that he couldn't remember. They didn't talk any more about it, but for the rest of the day Chris felt haunted by his purloined gloves and hat.

He felt better about it the following morning. They had a very enjoyable time on the slopes. His good mood was derailed, however, by a new unfortunate incident late in the day. Chris picked up Wilson's cell phone when Wilson wasn't around, and had a brief chat with Wilson's secretary at work. Wilson was furious afterwards, and Chris thought Wilson had it all completely out of proportion.

"I only picked up your phone in case it was House," Chris eventually said, exasperated. "Because you'd never forgive me if you missed one of _his _calls, would you?"

"This is not about House!"

"Everything's about House," Chris objected, completely carried away now into uncharted territory. "_His_ damn patients. _His_ stupid staff. _His_ fucking personal problems."

Wilson bristled. "You could see it wasn't him from the caller ID."

"Sure, and if it's not House then everyone else can go to hell, including important phone calls from your work colleagues about dying cancer children!" Chris knew that was below the belt, but it _was_ what that phone call had been about.

Wilson glared at him for a moment, speechless, then said, "Have I ever told you _why_ I always answer House's calls?"

He hadn't. Chris didn't reply, but waited uncertainly.

"Because the last time I wasn't there I found out he'd died. He'd had an aneurysm clotting in his leg for three days, two operations, and in the middle of it all he crashed and he fucking well died there in hospital. He was dead for more than a minute. And I wasn't there. You know how that feels?" Wilson put a hand to his own chest. "Can you guess what it might feel like?"

Chris was silent.

"And when I got there he was _so fucking glad_ to see me, even though he didn't say so, of course." Wilson took a deep breath. "I know when House calls it might be that he's run out of beer, or wants someone to watch the game with. Heaven forbid that he should get up and walk ten paces to find the remote. But it also might be that he's taken too many of his damn pills, or he's fallen down and can't get up. It's a bit like the boy who cried wolf. And you know what happened to him? The wolf got him."

Wilson didn't need to go on; Chris could see determination writ large on his face. The wolf was not getting House while Wilson was around to stop it.

"I get it," Chris said eventually. "All I'm saying is... how do you think I feel? If he called right now and asked—no, told you—to go back, you would, wouldn't you?"

"Chris!" Wilson sounded wounded. "That's not fair— "

At that moment Wilson's cell phone rang. Both men looked at it, down on the table between them. Chris stared meaningfully at Wilson. Wilson flushed bright red, then grabbed the phone.

It wasn't House. It was a wrong number. But it didn't matter; the point had been made, House was there between them, interfering in his absence almost as much as he would have been in person.

And—Chris regarded his gloves slowly—so was Edward.

They didn't argue any more after that; they went and sat in a hot tub and tried to relax. They had a very nice dinner, though conversation was subdued. Chris saw Wilson shake off the cloud of their argument as time passed; gradually becoming brighter, more charming, seeking to draw Chris out a little. Eventually Wilson even apologized, very sweetly, for overreacting to the cell phone thing; Chris accepted the apology as gracefully as he could, and muttered that he'd overreacted too.

Chris couldn't shake off his own cloud of despair, though, not over dinner, not over a nightcap afterwards, not while fucking Wilson in bed that night or kissing the hell out of him after that. He needed to touch, to hold, to be held, and yet, and yet... his mind couldn't seem to cope with anything. It was fucking ridiculous, and he hated himself for it, but he could not let go of the pain inside. He stayed awake long into the night, despite the reassuring presence of Wilson curled up around him.

They had a good final morning on the slopes the next day, followed by a nice lunch, and then packed and prepared to vacate their cabin.

They had a bit of spare time before they had to leave, and started necking on the bed. As Chris lay flat on his back, barely moving, Wilson slowly and carefully undid each of his shirt buttons in turn. Then Wilson eased a hand into Chris's pants, inside his boxer shorts, and Chris shut his eyes and almost ceased thinking as he felt Wilson's fingers running over his balls, tickling slightly, caressing, _God please go on like that forever_. Then Wilson's hand curled round his cock and the temperature seemed to rise. He went from semi-hard to rock-hard in what felt like seconds; Wilson breathing into his chest, licking at his nipples, nibbling slightly. Chris bucked his hips and pulsed into Wilson's fist, and his mind was vacant as he came spurting into Wilson's hand with a gasp of _"Edward!"_

_Fuck._

There was a long silence.

Chris kept his eyes shut and hoped this was a dream, a bad wet dream, or rather a nightmare (a wet nightmare?) Then he felt Wilson move into a sitting position, reaching for a handkerchief from the nightstand. This was real.

_Fuckshitfuckshitfuckshitfuck._

He didn't know what to say.

Eventually Wilson said, almost conversationally, "You know, if you'd done that when we first met, I wouldn't have been surprised. Might even have expected it. But now?" His voice rose sharply into an accusing tone. "Now, after all these months together? _Why_?"

"I'm sorry," Chris mumbled. He felt naked, exposed; of course he _was_ partly naked and exposed. He struggled to do up his pants, button his shirt. Wilson watched him through narrow eyes. "I'm going through a bad patch. I don't know why."

Wilson's voice was very cold as he said, "I thought it was strange that you were wearing your dead boyfriend's gloves and wouldn't even admit it to me." Chris was shocked. Wilson saw Chris's expression, and went on, "I tried them on yesterday evening when you were in the bathroom, they've still got his name inked on the lining. Why're you wearing them?" Wilson sounded upset now. "What is it, some kind of fetish? You've got to have something of his close to you still, after more than two years?"

Chris could hardly breathe, barely speak to say, "It's not like that."

"No? Because I'm starting to think maybe House is right." Wilson's voice cut through Chris like a knife through butter. "Maybe you _are _with me just because I look like him."

Chris crashed a fist into the mattress. "That is not fucking true."

Wilson wouldn't meet his eye, and instead hopped off the bed, saying briskly, "It's about time we got going."

They drove back to Princeton without talking much. Wilson drove most of the way; Chris sat slumped in the passenger seat, lost in his own thoughts while also observing Wilson. He could see Wilson was gradually lightening up again, throwing off the anger. Damnit, the idiot would forgive him by the end of the journey. Chris remembered what House had said: _he's in love with you_. Chris had tried not to think about that too much since.

They arrived back at Wilson's apartment, where Chris had left his car, late in the evening. Once inside Wilson's living room, Chris took a deep breath and said what he'd been thinking about the whole journey back.

"Wilson, I don't think we should see each other any more."

Wilson stared at him and said, "You're dumping me?"

"Yeah." Chris's voice cracked as he spoke. He felt a lump rising in his throat and swallowed convulsively, pushing tears back by sheer force of will. "It's like we've each got a ghost sitting on our shoulder. And mine is actually a ghost, but yours is alive and kicking and walking right behind you with a cane..."

Wilson opened and closed his mouth but didn't say anything.

"I don't know how you cope so well with both our ghosts," Chris continued, "but I'm sure as fuck not coping with either right now."

Wilson put a hand to his face and turned away. He said, his voice muffled, "And that's it? There's nothing I can do?"

"No," Chris said, blinking back the tears now.

Wilson walked abruptly out of the room, into his bedroom, where he flung himself down on the bed, face-down. His body started to shake.

Chris looked at him helplessly, wanting to offer comfort, but knowing he couldn't. Wanting to leave, too, but not wanting to leave Wilson like this. What do you do in that sort of situation? You call their best friend. Chris picked up Wilson's phone, lying on the coffee table, and hit speed dial #1. House's cell.

House picked up after two rings. There was noisy chatter and the blare of a TV in the background. "Wilson, back from the slopes, any broken bones?"

"House, it's Chris."

"Chris?" House's switch of tone from _casual_ to _concerned_ in one word was remarkable. "What's happened?"

"Wilson's fine," Chris said hastily, realizing House had possible ski accidents in mind. "I mean, we got back fine. But... we just split up. I mean, I broke up with him." Oh God, this was impossible. "He's kind of upset and I don't want to leave him on his own." Chris paused, listening to the background noise. "Where are you?"

"Off track betting." House's reply was nearly drowned out by a roar. "I'll be with you in ten minutes."

Chris prowled around Wilson's apartment for the next ten minutes, retrieving various possessions of his and putting them in a bag. He had never kept much at Wilson's, but there were a lot of small things now he looked for them; toiletries, items of clothing, CDs, a couple of books.

When House arrived, Chris was standing waiting, anxious now to leave, to start the long drive back to the beach. House acknowledged Chris with a curt nod, which was frankly more than Chris might have expected, and strode through to the bedroom to look at Wilson. Wilson was still lying face down, he hadn't moved at all.

House retreated to join Chris in the living room, and asked, "He take anything? Or do anything stupid?"

"No," Chris assured him.

"Why'd'ya dump him?" House asked, trying to be offhand, but not really succeeding.

"Ask him," Chris said shortly, picking up his bag.

"I'm asking you," House snapped.

"Why do you think?" Chris retorted, slinging the bag on his back.

House looked at him for a long moment, then said, "I never tried to break you two up."

"I know," Chris said flatly. "Because if you had, we'd have broken up. And that's kind of the whole problem."

House was silent for a moment, then said, "I'll get him drunk."

Chris turned and walked out of Wilson's apartment. He got in his car and drove home, utterly numb.


	12. Epilogue: Married men

That summer, Chris was doing admin in the back room one day at his beach steakhouse, as was his habit on a Sunday afternoon, when one of the waiters came to see him.

"There's someone here who says he knows you. His name's Dr. House."

"House? Crap." Chris was surprised. "I'll come and see him."

It had been some six months since he'd split up with Wilson. In that time, Chris had spent a month doing very little, taken a two month vacation with Linus out to Tunisia and Morocco, had his house redecorated again, and successfully completed one of the modules of his MBA. He'd had no contact with Wilson, and couldn't imagine what House was doing here. Chris finished checking invoices, and went out to the dining room.

House was there, wearing sunglasses, sitting at a table with a good view down to the beach. He'd apparently finished eating, as there was an empty plate on the table in front of him, and the check sat next to it on a small tray. He was on his own.

Chris went and sat next to him.

"Hey, House. Enjoy your lunch?"

"Steak could've been bloodier," House said, leaning back in his chair.

"I'll tell the chef," Chris said, his tone ironic. "What are you doing here?"

"Just driving by, thought I'd stop for lunch," House was breezy. He was also lying; Chris couldn't think of any reason why House would have taken an hour-long drive down to the coast. He'd made a special trip.

Chris hesitated, then asked, "Wilson not with you?"

"Naw," said House, and Chris was vaguely relieved. House looked at him through the sunglasses, and added, "He's on his honeymoon."

"He's what?" Chris thought he must have misheard.

"On his honeymoon. He got married last weekend. In Vegas." House paused, then continued, "I was his best man. For the third time. I think I should be in line for some sort of prize."

"House, you are so fucking with me." Chris knew House and his practical jokes.

In answer, House pulled out his cell phone, flipped it open, and scrolled through a number of photographs before finding the one he wanted. He handed the phone over to Chris. Chris looked at the picture. It showed Wilson and a small brunette woman smiling, brandishing rings, a pink altar and a beaming official in the background. The woman was wearing a party dress and a white headdress. Confetti was floating through the air around them.

"Julie?" Chris said tentatively. He'd never actually met of Wilson's friends apart from House, but he recognized the woman from another photo Wilson had in his apartment. Wilson had known her a while, helped her through a messy divorce.

"That's right," House confirmed.

Chris looked at the picture again, and said, suddenly angry, _"You let him do this?"_

"What am I, his keeper?" House said irritably.

Chris snapped the phone shut and handed it back to House. "Like you couldn't have stopped it if you wanted to. You think he'll keep away from people like me if he's safely married off to some poor ignorant woman? She can't possibly know what she's getting into."

"Nope," House agreed. "But you did, and it didn't stop you."

This comment momentarily stunned Chris.

House carried on, "Anyway, you give me too much credit. He _wanted _to marry her, for God's sake, like I could put that thought in his head. I thought she was just the rebound fuck, but no, he's gotta satisfy this craving for conformity and respectability. Again." House tipped his sunglasses up, his blue eyes fairly jumping out, and stared directly at Chris. "Sound like anyone else you used to know?"

"I was never Edward's best man," Chris struck back. "And you call Wilson the enabler, you crazy fucker."

"Oh, but he is." House shifted the glasses back down. "He certainly fed right off your pathetic grieving neediness."

Chris stood up, decisive. He'd never entirely put Edward behind him, never would; but he _had_ put Wilson behind him, and there was no reason to play House's little games any more.

"'Bye, House," Chris said. "Don't forget to pay your check. You might keep on stealing Wilson's food from him, but you're sure as hell not stealing mine."

Chris walked away, and didn't look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're intrigued by the mentions of Chris's previous boyfriend Edward, you can read their story in [Chris and Edward](http://archiveofourown.org/works/68183).


End file.
